Blood and Whispers
by SarellaMartell
Summary: Two hundred years after Stannis Baratheon won the Iron Throne, the game begins anew. This is the narrative version of the events of an open ASOIAF RolePlay forum still in progress.
1. Chapter 1

**Explanation**

_This fic follows the events of an open ASOIAF role play still in progress at r/GameofThronesRP/ _

_It is set 200 years after the events of the series, in a scenario where Stannis Baratheon won the Iron Throne. _

**Chapter One**

**- DAMON -**

Damon Lannister was finding that the festivities at the castle at King's Landing were certainly making for a raucous good time, but the merriment, the cheek kissing, and the trying-to-remember-which-coat-of-arms-that-is (perhaps he should have spent more time listening to his maester and less time making faces at his brother from across the table) was becoming a bit suffocating. Add a bit too much wine to that equation and a breath of fresh air became absolutely necessary. However, a moment's respite from the feasting and dancing wasn't the only reason Damon stole from the great hall and into a corridor. No, there was something else he had to do.

It had been years since he last set foot in King's Landing, but he still knew the way by heart. His footsteps echoed on the stone floors, and the torches lighting the hallway made his shadow appear long and tall.

_A few more twists and turns, and - yes, here it is. The throne room._

The sight of it was enough to take his breath away: the Iron Throne. Built by Aegon I Targaryen, the first king of the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon the Conqueror had the Throne made from the swords of his enemies. It was supposed to have taken a thousand blades to make, heated in the dragon's breath of Balerion the Black Dread. The hammering had taken fifty-nine days (there, something the maester said had stuck).

_This is what every person feasting in the great hall close by lusts after. This is what all of them are scheming and dreaming of stealing, _he thought to himself. _This is what my father would have me sit upon._

The last time he gazed upon the throne he was a young boy of just ten and four. Nearly a decade had passed since then, but his opinion was much the same.

"Looks terribly uncomfortable," he murmured aloud.

"The king complains about it often enough, I assure you. I've got half a mind to provide him with cushions."

A knight garbed in the white cloak and armor of the Kingsguard stepped forward. The Lannister immediately recognized him as the Ser Ulrich Dayne, Sword of the Morning. He was a tall and elegant looking man near thirty, with flowing white hair and deep purple eyes, the Valyrian traits of his ancestors. He wielded the famous sword of his house, Dawn, an ancient and magical blade that was said to be forged from a falling star. It was rumored to grant its bearer with exceptional abilities, but only a man most honorable and true of heart could stand to grip its hilt.

"Ser Ulrich, forgive me for not greeting you sooner, I did not see you standing in the shadows," Damon turned to face the knight of the Kingsguard, his eyes scanning the fine white and gold armor before locking with a pair of bright violet orbs. "Why, what they say is true," he remarked, "If I'd only had a bit more wine, I'd have mistaken you for a Targaryen. Of course, I'm sure you hear that often enough... Those eyes are truly something. I'd bet that you could have your pick of the castle maidens. It's such a shame that knights of Kingsguard are sworn to take no brides," he smiled coyly. "You are truly a more admirable man than I for taking such... difficult...and restrictive vows."

"Yes, I'm aware," Ulrich replied. "Sadly, I have a reputation to keep. Young boys, aspiring to be knights regard me as one of the best. Maidens look at my eyes and wonder. I am the Sword of the Morning, and I am supposed to be the ideal knight. I can't tarnish my forbear's reputation by spending all my time in whorehouses, now, can I?" Ulrich sighed, locking eyes once more with the Westernman. "But what of you, Lannister? How fares your own amorous adventures?"

"I am thankful that men like you are concerning yourselves with the dreams of young boys and wondering maidens so that men like me don't have to. Though I am sure my father would appreciate me giving more thought to my forbearers." Damon stared at the toes of his boots and snorted. "As for me, I can name a hundred things more worth my time than a woman. Don't mistake me, every man has his needs, but when money can buy you anything - and I do mean _anything _- chaining yourself to one wretched creature for all of your worldly days seems like an awfully dull prospect. Of course, marriage does have its political purposes..."

He looked up at the young, white haired knight suddenly. "Answer me this, Ser Ulrich: a king is rarely without a member of his Kingsguard. You spend a lot of time with his Grace. Likely you've watched him sleep, you've watched him eat, you've stood outside his privy and listened to him shit. You've stood in countless council meetings, silently listening as he rules over all of Westeros, his kingdom that has been without a queen now for seven years. Tell me, why do you think King Harys hasn't remarried?"

Damon nodded in the direction of the Great Hall, far away enough that the sounds of feasting and music and dancing are just faint echoes off the cold stone walls. "Every eligible maid and maiden in the seven kingdoms has her best dress on tonight, her tightest bodice, her finest corset, and all the other ridiculous trappings high born women don to impress and beguile drunken, horny, high born men. Each of them hopes to seduce a long widowed and presumably lonely king. I thank the gods I was born a man, else I'm sure I'd be in there amongst the lot of them, trying to convince a Baratheon that marrying a Lannister is a _fine_ idea."

The young lord smiled. "Surely the king has sought companionship in the last seven years, as a knight of his Kingsguard like yourself undoubtedly would know... But he hasn't sought a wife. How interesting. What do you make of that, friend?"

"You're a smart man, Damon." The knight's hand hovered over the hilt of Dawn. "But you should mind your tongue, in future. I'm happy to be your friend, but I will not help spread ill will about the man I've sworn to protect." He lowered his hand. "Shall we rejoin the feast? I am feeling thirsty, and who knows? You may find that one of these maidens in their 'tightest bodice' takes your fancy."

Damon grinned innocently, "Forgive my blunt tongue, ser, wine tends to loosen it even beyond its usual brazenness." He glanced towards the stone corridor, shadows from torchlight dancing across the walls. "Yes, we wouldn't want to miss any revelry. I understand the Lord Frey has brought a fool as a gift for his grace. I imagine that is quite a sight to see." He winked deviously.

With one last glance at the iron throne, he turned and left.

**- RHAEGAR -**

Rhaegar Targaryen looked at his stunted dragon.

"Could you at least give us a fire? No? Stupid lizard."

The dragon yawned at him, then flapped his wings lazily and flew to the top of one of the towers of Castle Black. "Take your dragon they said," Rhaegar muttered, "Keep you warm he will, won't be so bad."

The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Lord Hoster Tully, watched the ranger from his window with a smile before turning back to his scrolls, one of the many incarnations of the tale of the Night King.

Rhaegar looked up at the dragon. "Oy! get down here! it's time to eat!"

The dragon screeched at him, then blew smoke out of his nostrils. "I'm sure the Lord Commander would be ecstatic to know that a fire breathing menace is perched right outside his chambers! Vaellon! Geroff' that tower."

Rhaegar started trudging through the snow, muttering to himself. "Last person to burn down the Lord Commander's tower ended up being the Lord Commander, so might be a good omen, but then again with my luck, they'll just send me out to find some o' them lost rangers. Been dead two hundred years, and still they act as if they're alive."

Rhaegar shook his head, then headed to the shield hall. "Stupid dragon, we could all be eating venison if he'd do something useful, but no he'd rather roost on a tower, and act like he's King in the North."

He opened the door to the mess hall and headed inside, gathering up some food and taking a seat on one of the great benches lining the walls. Balon Selmy entered soon after, getting his meal and sidling up beside his black brother.

"Hey, Rhaegar. How was watch duty today?"

"Cold, windy, and cold. I don't even know why we do watches, the only time wildlings come to the wall they climb the deserted areas."

"Don't be like that," Balon said, stabbing at his plate of gruel with his fork, "If we didn't have watches, snarks and grumpkins would kill us all." He paused and a forkful of mashed turnips hovered just in front of his mouth. "Though at least if we died we wouldn't feel so cold."

Rhaegar drank his wine. "Snarks, that would almost be welcome. It'd break the monotony of this ice hell."

"Hey, cheer up," Balon said through a mouthful of food. "I'm sure something will happen relatively soon."

"If that dragon of mine would listen like he's supposed to, watch duty might be enjoyable."

"You'll be able to train him soon," Balon smiled teasingly. "Unless he kills you while you're sleeping. You should be thanking the gods that the King let you keep him when he sent you off to the wall after catching wind that you had one."

"He won't get any bigger; that and the king thought a Targaryen with a stunted lizard was funny. Damn near shat himself when he saw it," Rhaegar snorted derisively, "Bloody oaf. King Harys wouldn't know a thing about the dragon if the damned runt hadn't gotten lose over the Blackwater Bay. Now, he may be small, but my dragon will be as good as Balerion if someone tries to come for my life."

"And when he's not fighting to save your skin, he flies onto the lord commander's tower," Balon pointed out with a smile. "That was a sight to see."

"Yeah, for you. Anything gets burnt up there, they come after me."

"Lucky you. Well, I don't have anything to do this evening. Tully's giving me a break. Any ideas on what to do?" Balon set down his horn of ale and pushed around the food on his plate some more. It wasn't very appetizing. "I was thinking of practicing my archery. Feel free to join."

"I will," Rhaegar said, holding his nose high in the air, "Maybe I'll even teach you a thing or two about how to handle a bow."

"Ha!" Balon laughed. He was accustomed to his friend's pride and boastfulness. Rhaegar was a Targaryen after all, and adjusting to the Night's Watch had been difficult for the strapping young man of twenty and seven. If he hadn't been caught with a dragon and sent to the Wall, Balon could easily picture him sitting on the Iron Throne one day. Rhaegar was one of the best rangers in the Watch and men still admired him in spite of his abrasive personality.

"I actually hit the target the other day," Balon said. "I'm improving."

Rhaegar stood from the bench and gathered up his dishes. "I'll be the judge of that," he said with a grin. "Let's go to the yard."

**- MELLARA -**

Maude brushed her hair until the tresses that fell in long golden brown waves about her shoulders were shining. She wanted to look her best today.

The oldest of the Tyrell ladies had been enjoying her long stay in the capital. King's Landing had little in common with her home in the Reach, but the Red Keep was a refreshing change of scenery from Highgarden, and she loved feasts of all kinds.

The one held in the castle the other night had been an event straight out of one of her fairy tales. Beautiful ladies were dancing with handsome lords while bards played their lutes and fiddles and sung merry tunes, but the most magical part of the night had been the dance she shared with King Harys Baratheon.

He was a handsome man, near thirty now, with thick chestnut colored hair and a full beard. When he wrapped one hand around her waist and held her own hand in the other, sweeping her across the floor to the sound of harps and drummers, she thought she would melt in his arms. She could feel the envy from the other ladies in the room.

"Are you finished yet, Maude?" Mellara asked, bored. The youngest Tyrell was seated on the floor, picking at a thread hanging from the hem of her moss green gown.

"Hush, little one," Maude smiled, turning over her shoulder to stick her tongue out at her little sister. "You cannot rush perfection."

Mellara grinned. "You're already perfect, Maude, everyone knows it," she said, tugging at the string on her dress and absentmindedly watching it slowly unravel the lace fringe. "The King certainly seems to know it."

She was caught off guard by the pillow Maude threw, and yelped when it hit her in the head, messing up her already tangled hair.

"Don't pull at your dress, dear sister," Maude scolded gently. "Our lord father wants us to look our best at court today."

"He wants you to look your best," Mellara corrected her. "After all, it's you King Harys has his eye on."

"He doesn't have his eyes anywhere they don't belong," Maude replied, shooting her sister a mocking glare, "So mind your wagging tongue when people ask you about us. The King simply enjoys my company is all." She shrugged and smiled bashfully, "And I enjoy his as well."

The two sisters entered the throne room together, with Mellara trailing behind her older sister. They took their places in the back of the vast chambers with the other women, and Mellara began craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the proceedings, something which Maude raised her eyebrow at.

"Please try to be ladylike," she told her.

"Shh!" Mellara snapped, "I can almost see the King!"

King Harys sat on the throne beneath the great windowed dome. His brown eyes were always warm to his friends, but they looked bored and disinterested now. He was dressed in a deep green doublet and the black leather of his boots had been polished to a regal shine. A crown of gold fashioned to look like antlers sat atop his head, stretching up towards the ceiling where rays of winter light shone down into the throne room.

A booming voice was echoing in the chambers, and Mellara stood on tip toe to try and find its source.

"My lords, your Grace! This has gone on long enough. Aeron Greyjoy is a traitor to the realm, and should pay for his crimes. If not for his heinous crimes to Lord Reed, then for his orchestration of raiding parties sent to Seagard. It took all of the Frey and Mallister forces combined to ward off the ironborn, but we took prisoners, and have information that implicates Lord Aeron as the man behind all of this reaving and raping."

Mellara caught a glimpse of the speaker. He was a strange looking man, with shoulder length dark hair but eyes as green as a Lannister.

"Who's that?" she whispered, tugging on Maude's arm.

"Lord Randyll Frey," Maude whispered back, keeping her gaze fixed on the court and a pretty smile on her face.

Mellara shifted uncomfortably. There was something rather disconcerting about the man's presence.

"Should he be allowed to go unpunished, I fear for the safety of the Trident and the Green Fork!" he was saying. "I would suggest his sons be taken hostage, but it seems the boy is too green to father children, so I say take his ships, your Grace! Weaken the Iron Fleet and we shan't see anything of this like happening again."

He stopped to think for a moment, his eyes burning with contemplation, before continuing airily, "Not to mention, the Lords Mallister, Reed and myself may well require a payout to compensate for the brave men and resources we lost tackling the Greyjoy menace..."

The King regarded the Lord Frey warily before replying, tapping a ringed finger against the arm of the Iron Throne, "How much do you ask, my lord?"

"Ten-thousand dragons should suffice each of us, your Grace, if your Master of Coin can find room for it," he stated boldly. "If not, you could always have the Iron Fleet's ships distributed amongst lords Reed, Mallister, and I. The Riverlands would be the safest they've ever been."

"Of course," the King consented, nodding to his Master of Coin, "Lord Baelor, give the lords their coin."

Before Baelor Pyke could draw his quill, another voice interrupted. A man with flaming red hair and tattoos on his arms spoke. "Your Grace," he said, "If I might be so bold, the Lord of Frey has just raided you worse in a few sentences than Greyjoy did with all of these reavings together. A few soldiers and the food to feed them does not warrant ten-thousand dragons."

Randyll Frey turned, and with a sly smile replied, "Lord Connington, if the crown is unable to provide this money, why not give the ships from the Iron Fleet to us? The Riverlands could use some extra naval power, as I'm sure Lord Baelish can testify, and it's certainly a more efficient option than scrapping the ships."

Mellara's eyes darted between the two men. She reached over and grabbed Maude's shoulder, trying to pull herself up for a better view.

"Stop that!" Maude hissed, swatting her away. "Can you please try to behave yourself? For me?"

Mellara just rolled her eyes.

"Your Grace, may I suggest you let this matter sit for now," a new voice said. Its owner was as a lean man, clad in dark colors and thick fur with dark hair and a clean shaven face. He had a direwolf clasp pinning his grey cloak about his shoulders and Mellara figured him to be Lord Edmure Stark of Winterfell.

"Both parties seem to be missing and this talk of war makes lords bold and has the ladies fearful. I will send a quarter of our men to assist the Crannogmen with anything they need; if the Iron Islanders get bold again so be it. My men grow restless without a good fight and the Wolves will watch after their own. Lord Frey seems to be far more interested in the warships than gold dragons. The lion in his blood causes me to question his ambitions.. should we be so quick to provoke the Iron Islanders?"

"Does lion blood frighten you, Stark?"

Mellara elbowed her way through two ladies in front of her and caught a glimpse of a handsome golden haired man before she felt Maude's hand on the back of her gown, yanking her back to her place.

_A Lannister,_ she thought. Even if his yellow hair and emerald eyes didn't give him away, she could guess his house by the way he looked disdainfully at the Stark lord, making no effort to conceal his contempt.

"Of course, only a dog would run from the iron threat with his tail between his legs, and that is what you have on your sigil, is it not? A dog? Lord Frey is concerned for the safety of the realm. Men are being murdered in cold blood and women are being raped, and you want to put off decisive action because the accused hasn't come to his trial? You heard the Lord Frey, diplomacy will not work with the Ironborn."

The blonde man turned to face the King, and added, "Your Grace is also undoubtedly aware that House Lannister and House Greyjoy are united by marriage. My lady mother, wife to the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, is a Greyjoy. Given that our houses are aligned, it seems fitting that if Aeron is removed he should be replaced by a Lannister."

"As you well remember, your Grace," a new voice chimed in, "you and I dealt with this Greyjoy menace in the past. By allowing House Greyjoy to maintain Lordship over one of the Seven Kingdoms, we are making a grave mistake. I would implore your Grace to strip him of his titles and put his ships with the Royal Fleet. Should your Lordship deem my service to the realm worthy of a seventh of your kingdom, I would gratefully accept the Iron Islands."

Mellara fidgeted impatiently. She couldn't see anything from this terrible position in the back of the throne room.

"Why do the women have to stand back here?" she whined to Maude, who shot her a silencing glare. "I can't see anything."

"You don't need to see anything, Mellara," Maude responded. "You're supposed to stand there and look pretty. Here, put your hands like this." She nodded at her own hands, which were folded neatly and resting against her perfectly smoothed skirts.

Mellara's skirts were already wrinkled. She scrunched up her nose at her sister. "I do need to see. I can't tell who's talking just by their voice, Maude."

"That's Durran Harlaw," Maude whispered. Mellara frowned in confusion and Maude rolled her eyes. "They call him 'the Reaper." He was the one who killed Lord Damron Greyjoy in the second Greyjoy Rebellion."

Mellara stood on the tips of her toes, peeking over the shoulders of the women in front of her.

"Lord Duran," Damon bowed his head in greeting, but looked up at the Lord of Harlaw with a somewhat confused frown. "No one amongst us would deny your prowess in battle, nor the strength of your fleet or house. But as you and I both know, the Greyjoys have ruled the Iron Islands since Aegon the First's conquest. There have been no other lines. Pyke won't accept rule from anyone other than a Greyjoy."

"I am grateful for your flattery, Damon," Durran returned the bow, "House Hoare ruled in the beginning, Pyke will accept rule of another house close to Hoare, while force of arms will only strengthen our hold on the Iron Isles. However fear not, young Lannister, I would not seek to tear down House Greyjoy as the rulers of Pyke. I wish simply to institute the Ten Towers as the new capital of the Iron Islands."

The Lannister stiffened, "After Aegon I extinguished House Hoare, he allowed the ironborn to choose who would have primacy over them. They chose Vickon Greyjoy. The Greyjoys have ruled ever since. What you are suggesting is an appeal to a fondness for a house that is centuries extinct. However that is an... interesting proposal, my lord."

"My lord, I am not blind to your lineage," Durran replied, "but a madman such as Aeron cannot be allowed to rule a kingdom. Your continued opposition over the rule of House Harlaw, a house loyal to the King, is surprising and interesting. Perhaps the future lord wishes to inherit two kingdoms when his father passes?"

Damon smiled innocently. "Lord Duran, my thoughts are only for my family. If a war against Pyke occurs, doubtless I will lose cousins, aunts, uncles... I wish to resolve the Greyjoy conflict with as little bloodshed as possible," the Lannister continued, "Lord Aeron is dangerous and unpredictable, but we need not throw the baby out with the bath water. There is no need to slaughter an entire house to rid ourselves of one misbehaving lord. Simply replacing my cousin with a family member more friendly to the realm seems to be the most logical choice."

Mellara tugged at her sister's arm again. "Are the Lannisters and Harlaws unfriendly?" she asked inquisitively. "I thought that the Lannisters were allied with the Iron Islands."

Maude shook her head. "They're allied with the Greyjoys," she corrected her sister under her breath. "Loren Lannister married one right after the rebellion - the dead Lord Greyjoy's sister."

The youngest Tyrell frowned, but before she could whisper any more questions, a loud guffaw from the Lord Stark drew her attention.

"Durran would be a most excellent replacement," he said with his arms crossed over his chest, "You, on the other hand, seem to only be only capable of handling a jug of wine and a whore! Tell me, Damon, is it? How does a greenboy who hasn't seen the battlefield rule the Iron Islands?"

Damon turned to glower at Lord Stark.

"I am not proposing that_ I_ rule the Iron Islands, Stark, I am proposing that a _Greyjoy_ rule them, as a Greyjoy always has. If we replaced every incompetent Lord with someone of a different house, the Starks would've gone extinct centuries ago."

"Let Harlaw himself strike down the last Greyjoy! No one would be more fit a man to rule the Iron Islands than the one that stands before you. If not Lord of the Iron Islands then Lord Paramount could suffice till a proper heir comes of age! Killing boys seems to be a cruel specialty of House Lannister, but you have no claws yet lion, so I suggest you hold your tongue till then!"

Damon clenched his teeth, shooting daggers at Lord Stark. He gave an accusatory nod to the skinning knife at Stark's hip and said quietly, "Don't speak to me about cruelty."

Defeated, he turned on his heel and stormed off, the crowd parting to allow him to pass. Mellara scrambled to get a better view of him as he went, but the throne room was too crowded. Bystanders were shooting uneasy glances at the blade at Lord Stark's waist and shifting uncomfortably.

Mellara looked to her sister and Maude glanced about the room before explaining quietly, "Lord Stark is rumored to practice flaying."

It was the girls' own father who spoke next. Lord Baelor was shaking his head. "Your grace, these other lords speak of brash military action in response to this attack from the Ironmen. I would urge caution and prudence. While deploying some force to the coastal regions near where the ironborn have attacked would be wise, escalating a conflict we know nothing about by doing anything more would be foolish. We should try to exhaust all diplomatic options first to find the root of the situation, while maintaining force in a defensive stance to protect against any attacks. We should not fall headlong into the haste of warmongering."

Mellara glanced up at her sister. Maude was watching the King with a dreamy look on her face. Mellara rolled her eyes again. The King did look dreamy - he seemed as though he might fall asleep on the throne.

"Lord Baelor is right," a man at the foot of the great seat said. This one Mellara knew, as she knew all the members of the small council. He was Aemon Estermont, and he held the position of Master of Ships. He also happened to be married to the sister of Loren Lannister.

"Your Grace, these lords are not war hungry, they are power hungry. They talk of dividing and taking Greyjoy lands and fleets as if stopping these so called 'raids' had amounted to stopping another Greyjoy rebellion. This is greed, my grace, and these lords would push this land into war if they had the choice. Need I remind you, your Warden of the West is wed to a Greyjoy."

King Harys nodded, speaking for the first time. He seemed to have awoken from a daydream at the sound of Lord Estermont's voice, and shifted in his seat on the throne.

"I agree, my lord," he replied loudly, though he did not seem certain of what it was he was consenting to.

"You are their king," Aemon said to the man on the Iron Throne, "Your word is law, and any dissent is rebellion in itself."

Harys nodded again, and scratched at his beard. His younger brother Joseph looked up at the King with a slight frown and cleared his throat.

"Brother, what is your final ruling on this matter?"

"We shall do as Lord Baelor proposed. Now, if that is all, I would like to adjourn this session." He stood up before anyone could protest, and Mellara noted the flicker of annoyance that crossed Lord Aemon's face.

The crowd broke out into a loud murmuring, as various lords and ladies began discussing the many championed proposals and speculating about the different motives of those involved. Mellara took off at once, narrowly escaping Maude's hands as the older girl tried to pull her sister back again.

She wove her way through the throngs of lords and ladies, hoping to eavesdrop on some tantalizing conversation.

Elsewhere in the room, Lord Gylen Hightower approached the Aryyn Martell, the Prince of Dorne.

"Prince Aryyn," Gylen greeted the Dornishman, "What an exciting day at court," he nodded in the direction of the King, who was speaking closely with the young Lady Maude as he made his way to the exit. She was laughing as he led her by the arm. "So the Stag is smitten with the Rose, it's quite understandable," he inhaled and exhaled deeply. "My late father would've quickly dismissed anyone who served the Tyrells of Highgarden, Lord Gylen. However, I am a more curious man than my father was. Where do you propose we meet to discuss this in private?"

Prince Aryyn followed Hightower's gaze. "Yes, understandable," he agreed, "But no less dubious. I'll be in Kings Landing a day or two longer before leaving for Sunspear."

"The Red Keep is full of wandering ears," Lord Gylen replied, "Perhaps it would be best if we arranged a time to meet outside of the castle."

"As you said, the court proceedings were rather exciting, Lord Gylen, and with the Lords and Ladies preoccupied with discussing it amongst themselves, I imagine it would be seen by few as noteworthy if you were to state your point."

Gylen sighed. "If you insist. We can both agree that having a Tyrell on the throne is unacceptable. I know that you have a daughter of a marrying age. Surely your Sarella would be a much better fit as mother to the King's Dornish son than any rose."

Mellara tucked a strand of straggly brown hair behind her ear she managed to move herself closer to the lords as they spoke.

"You're an intelligent one, Lord Gylen. The Tyrells know that their two daughters are some of the most beautiful maids in all of Westeros. Why not use this to our own advantage?" he noticed the Tyrell girl lingering about, and added, "A King deserves a beautiful queen, Lord Gylen, so does every unmarried man in Westeros. Every man wants to marry a beautiful maiden and continue his house. Wouldn't you agree, Lady Mellara?"

Mellara was caught off guard at being addressed, but quickly recovered and smiled sweetly. "Of course, my lord," she answered. "That is something every man deserves."

Gylen spun around, blushing a little. "Lady Mellara!" he bowed, "I didn't see you there. How are you enjoying the trial?" He gave a quick, gracious glance at the Prince. If not for Aryyn's sharp eyes, Gylen may have ruined everything then and there. "Excuse me for leaving you, I have some business to attend to. Good day, my lady." He turned to face Aryyn and bowed again. "Think about what I've said, Prince Aryyn."

He strut off, trying not to look as shaken as he felt.

Mellara eyed Gylen distrustfully as he left, rather disappointed at not having heard much more than 'Tyrells, daughters, Westeros,' but she was suspicious about the lord's sudden departure. She glanced at the Prince. "My lord, was there a problem?"

"Lord Gylen was asking my opinion on who among the maids in Westeros is most likely to sit next to King Harys as his queen. He mentioned your sister, Maude. I'm like to agree. She is a beautiful young girl."

"That's what everyone says," Mellara replied, eyeing the Prince warily. "But what do you think?"

Prince Aryyn smiled down her warmly.

"Sweet child," he said, "some things last forever. Steel may lose its edge, rocks may turn to sand, and even the mighty stag eventually falls, but the sun is always there. And roses? Well, my dear girl... roses wilt."

The smile never left his face as the Prince bowed his head and left.

**- AEMON -**

"A storm's coming my Lord."

"Then be thankful we've almost made Greenstone." Lord Aemon Estermont stood firm on the deck of Ocean's Gift, glancing to the East he took note of the darkening clouds. Three days out from his visit to King's Landing, the Lord's fleet was finally sailing through Cape Wrath. Soon he'd be home to castle Greenstone.

Lord Aemon's dreams of late had left him restless. A shadowy figure with a bleeding face, his three fingered hands reaching like claws, swallowing Aemon in icy blackness. A bad omen. Aemon shook himself free of his thoughts, best not to dwell on such childish things. Still, he would be grateful once they'd reached harbor.

To the west, waves crashed against the rocky shores of the Rainwood. The dark forest stretched off into the distance, the snarled ancient woodland growing thick with underbrush.

A shout came from the crow's nest. "My lord, shipwreck on the coastline!" Lord Aemon peered along the shoreline and spotted it quickly. It wasn't uncommon to find the remains of drowned ships dragged onto the coast by Cape Wrath's strong current; the Eastern stretch was perilous to the inexperienced sailor. "Looks like a tradeship my lord, recently wrecked." Aemon glanced once more out to sea, the storm was rapidly approaching. "Drop anchor, and make it quick, or we'll have this storm nipping at our heels."

Four longboats landed to the North of the drowned ship on a rocky outcrop. The main mast had snapped with the ship's collision, leaving jagged splinters of wood strewn about the wreck. Its mainsail hung like some great drowned beast, the wind whipping its weary form back and forth. The worst damage was the bow, where the merchant ship had crashed violently into the rocky shore; a gaping hole, half the width of the ship itself.

"Search the ship, take anything of value." Lord Aemon's eyes were drawn to several trails of footprints leading away from the ship, "And watch for survivors."

It wasn't long until a shaken man-at-arms returned, "My lord… I think you need to see this."

Stepping into the bowels of the ship Lord Aemon was hit with a familiar scent, blood, the air was thick with the smell. "What happened here?"

"Some kind of struggle my lord", came the reply, "there are markings of battle throughout the ship, but no bodies." He hesitated. "Well, there is one…" As they rounded the next corner a grinding noise was heard, and the ship groaned. "The men don't know what to make of it…" Lord Greenstone was ushered into what seemed to be a makeshift prison, rope and twine which had been used to tie the door shut lay on the floor, snapped apart. It was there he saw it, a single man, chained to the wall by his arms. Beside him lay two similar shackles, broken open and hanging useless. The man was rhythmically pulling on his chains, each time ushering a low moan from the broken ship. But the man's most noticeable feature were his eyes; each a deep glowing blue.

Lord Aemon stepped back. "May the seven protect us…" The wind had reached a fever pitch outside; the storm was nearly upon them.

"Burn the ship."

**- ULRICH -**

_There never seems to be a quiet night in the Red Keep_, the knight mused as he stood by one of the doors to the chamber where the king was feasting. Musicians were playing and the King was entertaining another handful of minor lords and hedge knights. This was one of the less glamorous aspects of Ser Ulrich's Dayne's role in the Kingsguard.

The drums, the lute, the singing, it began to get into his head, and he found himself stepping outside for some fresh air. He went up through the stairwell that lead to the privies and onto a balcony overlooking the busy city of King's Landing. He placed his hands on the stone railing and took a few deep breaths of fresh air, in an attempt to clear his head.

Inside the castle, the sound of Sarella Martell's sandals softly padding the stone floors echoed in the hallway, but no one seemed to hear it over the sounds of music and laughter coming from within one of the castle rooms. She pressed her ear to the door curiously, but was unable to distinguish any words from the light chatter of voices. It was her last night in King's Landing before departing for Dorne.

_Just another feast._

She continued on until she spied a door leading out onto a balcony. A light breeze was blowing the sheer curtains back into the hallway and she could see a glimpse of the black night sky, dotted with twinkling stars.

She didn't notice Ser Dayne until she stepped out onto the balcony. He was standing alone, leaning against the rail, armor glistening in the moonlight, his long white cloak billowing out softly behind him which every small breeze. Surprised, she tugged at her traditional Dornish dress, pulling some of the fabric over her exposed shoulder, and approached his side. Goosebumps dotted her skin.

"Ser Dayne," she greeted with a small nod. She neglected to curtsy as she had seen the Tyrell ladies do so often when running into knights and lords. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

"Ah, Sarella, my lady. It's been what, two years? We danced at your father's feast."

"We did indeed," Sarella smiled. "Two years doesn't sound like a long time, but it feels like ages. Is the King feasting?" She nodded her head in the direction of the music.

"As per usual. I've just came up here to clear my head. I get terrible headaches at his feasts, but a good bath in the light of the stars and fresh air seems to do the trick."

"It seems that all these lords and ladies do in King's Landing is feast, feast, feast," she cocked her head and looked at the knight with a sparkle in her eye, "It's a wonder they can still fit in their thrones. I find the night air cures any troubled thoughts of my own as well," she remarked, looking up at the stars, "But the air in King's Landing is too cold for my Dornish blood. See?" She held up her arm to show her goosebumps.

Ulrich chuckled. "You get used to both the cold and the feasting, I assure you. What's troubling you, my lady?"

Sarella looked out across the King's Landing debating internally how honest she could be with the knight. Her father warned her that the Martells had many enemies about, especially at King's Landing, but knights are the most honorable of all men, according to her story books, and the Sword of the Morning is the most honorable of all knights. She leaned her elbows on the balcony rail and lowered her slender arms against the cold stone, letting her hands dangle off the rail.

"As a Princess of Dorne, I worry that I've led a life too sheltered to allow me to survive in this world," she began honestly. "My father, Prince Aryyn, is protective of his only daughter. But how will I learn to handle myself amongst all the schemers and back stabbers if I am confined to the Water Gardens my whole life?" She frowned, and brushed away a loose strand of dark hair that had escaped her long braid. "You will think me a foolish child, Ser Dayne, but sometimes I dream of running away."

His purple irises shone in the starlight, as he gazed up at the heavens. "I spend all day just standing by the King's side, listening to him gallivant about with the Tyrell girls or host large feasts. I stand by a doorway and young boys regard me as a hero, just because I am exceptional at killing people." He sighed, and looked down at the streets. "War is all I know. Politics, I watch every day and it is pointless. Be honorable, be beautiful, and don't let others manipulate you. Don't try to play the game, fair Princess, because those who do are oft left in the dirt." He took her hand, kissed it, and returned to the stars, watching them.

"You are kind to be concerned for me, Ser Dayne," Sarella told the knight. She thought she detected a trace of sadness in his words. She wondered if he missed Dorne, its blazing hot sun, the dry desert air, and his family in Starfall. "So it is true then, that the King courts a Tyrell," she followed his gaze to the stars. "How quickly he seems to forget his Martell alliance and Rickon's heritage. My aunt was a strong and passionate woman," she remarked, referring to the late Queen, "My father still grieves her passing as if she left us yesterday. I am not sure what he would think of his nephew being raised by a Tyrell."

She moved closer to the Dornish knight, her bare arm brushing against his armor. Her face was clouded in worry, but her dark eyes were alight with curiosity. "You truly don't see yourself as the hero people know you to be?" She asked, leaning in, "You are a knight of the Kingsguard. You are the protector of the realm. You are the defender of the defenseless. The shield of the righteous," her voice became more hushed with every sentence, as she stared intently into his violet eyes. "You wield a blade forged from the heart of a falling star," she was almost whispering now.

_"You are the Sword of the Morning."_

"I am all that and more. My enemies cower at my name and the realm celebrates my prowess. But I am empty, my princess. There is a void within my bones." His hand hung over Dawn's hilt. "Wielding Dawn is both a blessing and a curse, those who forged it said. The ancients apparently placed enchantments upon this blade, to make it almost unbeatable, but they would burn themselves into the wielder. If unworthy, your hand should burn, but if worthy you are subject to a greater curse." He took the hand away, and turned his attention from the stars to the beautiful woman in front of him.

"Dawn sings a song, a song of lost and broken things," he said, "A song of starlight and solitude. Dawn yearns to return to the stars, and be amongst it's kin. And I hear the singing. The stars sing, my princess, and they are beautiful, as beautiful as the most heavenly woman you can imagine. But I cannot fly, and I am sworn to wed no woman." A tear dripped from his purple eyes.

Sarella lifted her hand to brush away his tear and her gold bracelets slid down her slender bronze arm. She was studying his face as if for the first time: the sharp angles, his strong jaw, his defined cheekbones. His skin was pale in the moonlight, his face framed by his white blond hair. It pained her to see his bright amethyst eyes crying. Looking at him now, so consumed by sorrow, she began to see him not as the icon and hero that the realm knew, but as a man - a Dornish man of the House of Dayne.

"Is that the void, Ser Ulrich? The place in your heart where a woman should be?"

"It appears so, my lady. My vows state I may take no wife, but the Kingsguard have been known to visit brothels in their time. It never occurred to me, I always figured it would tarnish my reputation..." Noticing the glint in Sarella's eyes, he raised an eyebrow. "What are you thinking, Sarella?"

She smiled softly, "I am thinking on what you have just said, Sword of the Morning: you are sworn to take no wife and there is a void in your heart where a woman should be." She stepped in closer to him. Their bodies barely inches apart, Sarella put a delicate hand on his breastplate and stood on the tips of her toes to whisper in his ear. "A wife is not the same as a woman."

"You are young, my princess, and the heir to Dorne no less. You have obligations to marry someone suitable and..." he breathed in, inhaling her sweet intoxicating scent. _Oh, by the Seven... _"And you are beautiful."

Sarella grinned, looking into the knight's bright purple eyes. The balcony, the noise from the feast, the distant clamor of King's Landing below her, all of it seemed to fade away. It was just her and Ser Ulrich Dayne, dressed in his white cloak and armor, staring down at his Dornish princess. She slipped a hand behind his head and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him as though her very life depended on it.

The kiss was tender, and her taste in his mouth was sweet. For this moment of madness, his vows were forgotten, and he was that lustful boy once again, thinking of nothing but her taste upon his lips, her frame pressed against his, the smell of her Dornish perfumes… He pulled away from her with a smile.

"We shouldn't be doing this. I am a man of honor."

She looked up at the knight, a playful glint in her dark eyes. "You are a man," she corrected him. As if to remind him, she took his rough and callused hands in her own and lifts them, pressing them against her breasts. Her Dornish gown was a rusted orange, nearly sheer, and draped loosely across her lithe frame. She moved his hands along the curves of her womanly body, down her sides, onto her waist, and then guided them to her buttocks. Leaving his hands there, she placed her own upon his glittering breast plate and kissed him once more. When at last they broke their kiss, the knight rolled his eyes.

"Oh, you're going to get me in trouble, Sarella. Is there anywhere we could go? It's a bit... breezy up here."

"Perhaps you're right, maybe we should go somewhere more private..."

"Indeed...anywhere in mind?"

Sarella glanced about. The balcony was deserted and the sounds of feasting from within the walls of the Red Keep mingled with the noise of the streets of King's Landing below them. The stars were bright (though not as bright as they shine in Dorne, she might argue), but the night air was chilly, and she shivered a bit. "Perhaps some place warmer," she said, looking up at one of the castle towers, looming above them in the background.

Following Sarella's gaze, he noticed the White Sword Tower rising above the skyline of King's Landing. His eyes widened, but a smile broke upon his lips. "Sarella, someone will likely see us..." he warned, as he took her hand.

She grinned mischievously, "And?"

She tugged on his hand and pulled him away from the balcony as he shook his head with a smile, pretending disproval. The sounds of their footsteps, her thin leather sandals and his armored boots, was lost among the noise of the feast as they slipped inconspicuously past the room where King Harys was dining. They made their way down the dimly lit stone corridors of the Red Keep, Sarella playful dragging the knight along, pausing occasionally to press him against a wall and tease him with a kiss. Her giggles echoed softly down the quiet hallways.

They ascended the spiral staircase of the White Sword Tower, Sarella before him, so that when she turned to face him for a kiss on the steps she was level with his bright purple eyes. By the time they reached the threshold, her mood was notably less playful. Her kisses were less teasing, more deep and hungry. Her dark eyes no longer sparkled with mischief, but were clouded with lust.

With a confident smirk on his face, he lifted her up off of her feet and carried the beautiful Dornish woman towards his bedchambers, ducking under the doorway, being careful not to hit her head on the doorframe. He laid her gently on the bed, turned, shut the door, and began to strip off his armor.

Sarella slid down her sleeves and slipped out of her light dress easily, tossing it aside. It fell to the floor gracefully, a pile of silky fabric on the cold stone floors of the bedchamber. The Tower seemed empty, quiet as a tomb but for the sound of their kissing, the clatter of Ulrich's armor as it was removed hastily, and then the soft moans and gasps of the Princess as he ran his hands over her naked body at last.

She tugged at his smallclothes, stripping the knight naked as she drowned in his caresses and kisses, until both were unclothed in his bed, bodies pressed together in desperate lust. She looked up into his bright purple eyes and could see that he wanted her more badly than he has wanted anything before.

"Ulrich," she whispered his name aloud, her hands reaching up to his face as his hands gripped her small waist with the strength of a warrior.

"Have you done this before?" he asked, eyes locked with those deep, beautiful brown orbs of hers. She shook her head hurriedly, and he rolled his eyes with a smile.

"Ready?" he said, kissing her neck. "One..." his purple eyes flared with lust, as he slowly got his body into position. "Two..." his hands quickly, softly, deftly widened Sarella's tanned legs. "Three."

The princess cried out in pain, squinting her eyes shut tight, tears welling up behind them. She was unprepared for how painful it was, but even more unprepared for how incredible it felt. As he began to thrust in and out of her, she slowly became more accustomed to his size inside her, and her legs, tense at first, began to relax.. She leaned back into the bed and allowed her body to unknot. With each of his thrusts her quiet yelps changed to moans, and he showered her in kisses.

The knight and the princess were tangled in the sheets of his bed in the White Sword Tower, with the moonlight pouring through the window and washing over their bodies. After he reached his climax, they collapsed in a jumble of sweaty limbs, hearts pounding, skin fiery hot to the touch. The knight pulled his princess into his strong arms, holding her panting body against his own. Her long dark hair was tousled, her braid undone long ago, and her tresses shone in stark contrast to the Dayne's silvery white hair. The stony Dornishman and the Martell daughter, The Sword of the Morning and the heir to Dorne, lied there breathing quietly.

Sarella gazed lovingly into his purple eyes, wishing she weren't leaving King's Landing in the morning, wishing she could stay in his arms forever. She nestled into his arms, her head against his chest, and closed her eyes, drifting off to sleep.

**- THE HIGHTOWER -**

"Are you paying attention?" Gylen glared down at his son Gerold, who he had just caught sneaking aglance out the tower window.

The Lord of Hightower was trying to teach his son the finer points of ruling, but Gerold's attention span was waning. At ten and eight, his son was no longer a child, and if he were to one day rule over Oldtown, he would need to concentrate on these important lessons.

They were a Hightower tradition that began generations ago. Gylen himself could easily recall sitting in the exact same seat that Gerold now sat in, listening to his father's lectures. In fact, when he closed his eyes, he could even hear his voice, and the voices of his now dead brothers in the training yard drifting in through that open window...

"Again. Defense is your best offense. Watch your back," Master-at-Arms Costayne repeated. Young Garth Hightower was surrounded by three of Oldtown's city watch, all of them adorned in light armor and equipped with wooden swords. Costayne was making use of the late morning sun to drill Garth and Gavyn while the shadow of the Hightower above them was not casting the courtyard in shade.

Garth was sweating under his white clothes, he had been training for an hour straight at this point. He was good, and it was evident his father's focus on his fighting ability had been well received by the muscular boy of 6 and ten. Gavyn stood by the side watching, his foot stamping repeatedly in anticipation. He was more slender, but still well trained. A military commander would have to fight as well.

The first guard came at Garth with a strong jab. The boy spun out of the way of the blade towards his attacker, ending up behind him. He poked the guard in the back with his sword. "Flowers, out!" Costayne yelled. The other two came at Garth. Garth parried the first strike cleanly, then the second. The two attacked at once, and Garth dodged one sword, but the other smacked the boy in the wrist. "Garth, you're out."

"But he only got my hand! That's not a ki-"

"In a battlefield it is. Losing a sword hand on the field is the worst way to go. You'll feel the pain before your enemy eventually drives his sword into your neck, if he's feeling merciful, and believe me, the enemies you will face when you're older will not be merciful to you," Ser Costayne lectured.

"House Rowan," a stern voice commanded suddenly.

Gavyn eagerly replaced his brother on the training grounds. Young Garth was already sporting an ugly purple bruise.

"House Rowan," the voice repeated.

Gylen sighed out the window as he watched his brothers fight. He had no scars, no bruises, hardly a cut. He wished he was out there with them not stuck in here with-

"House Rowan! Are you deaf?" Lord Garth Hightower snapped his fingers at his youngest son. Gylen jolted in his chair and blushed suddenly.

"S-sorry father. Golden tree on field of silver. Goldengrove. Lord Svenwood. U-untrustworthy." The last answer was always the same.

Old Garth glared at him, and glanced out the window at his other sons. "You're distracted. Why?"

Gylen rocked in his seat uncomfortably. He didn't like when his father asked him questions like this. He much preferred the testing questions, he was good at those. "I... I don't know. I-I might just be tired sitting here... learning..." He cringed in anticipation of his father's response.

"Tired of learning? Is that it? Well, why don't you go outside then. Play with the others," Garth said, leaning back in his seat. Gylen's eyes lit up, and he hesitated to rise. Garth sat and watched him. The boy of ten rose, but as soon as he did his father shot up as well.

"Yes, go outside. Go and play with your brothers. That's all they're doing, right? Playing. This all a game to you, and you're just getting punished because you're not old enough, is that right?" Garth's angered eyes stared into Gylen's.

"N-no..." Gylen replied, adverting his gaze now.

"No? Then why don't you understand, Gylen? Why don't you understand what I'm doing for you? Why don't you understand that this is your role in your family's victory? Do you not appreciate this? When your brothers take to the field of battle, you will be the one behind them planning it all. When they die, you will survive, is that not a gift? Is life not a good enough gift for you, Gylen? Have I raised you to be that spoiled?"

Tears welled up in Gylen's brown eyes. "I-I don't know."

"You don't know? You don't know! What have I done wrong, have I chosen the wrong son to give my love to? Maybe Garth or Gavyn would appreciate this more, perhaps they value their life more than you do yours. Have I made a mistake, Gylen?"

"N-no, father."

"Good!" Garth planted his hands on the table, his eyes wide. "Now will you sit, and do your family, me, and yourself a favor and pay attention? Son, I do this because I love you the most, don't you see? I knew from the start you were the one, you would bring our family to victory."

Gylen sits down and sniffles a couple times. "Really?" His father always had the answers. He glanced out the window one last time, watching Garth, back on the court, lose the practice fight to a guard prodding him in the back. Suddenly the shutters were snapped closed by Garth.

"Yes. I do this because I love you, and this family. Your House needs you. I need you. And now I need you to tell me the answers for House Dayne."

Gylen regained his composure, still looking down at his feet uncomfortably. "White sword crossed with falling star against purple. Starfall. Lord Arthur Dayne. Untrustworthy."

"Good. House Baratheon."

"Crowned stag against yellow. Storms End, Dragonstone, and the Red Keep. Lord Trystane Baratheon. Untrustworthy."

"Good... House Tyrell."

"Golden rose against green. Highgarden. Lord Luthor Tyrell," Gylen knew this answer better than any other...

"Untrustworthy."

**- THE LORD OF THE CROSSING -**

The book in Randyll's lap was a tome.

Countless worn pages sat nestled between cracked leather bindings, all filled with names and dates written in an almost illegible scrawl.

_...Lord Simon Baelish, died of a sudden chill during the Great Winter Frost of 403 AL… _

The text read as a cautionary tale. Deaths knocked on deaths as rulers and sons alike told the grisly tale of the castle with their tombstones. Randyll closed the cracked leather cover and glanced once more at the title: _Histories and Rulers of Harrenhal._

_Even the title is dull,_ he thought to himself, replacing the tome upon the table. He had sent his squire Orson to retrieve the dusty old text from amongst the many other dusty old texts stored in the Red Keep, but he had hoped for something more _substantial_ to fill the time until his departure. It had been nigh over a month since he had seen Belandra and the children, and the days seemed to inch by slower than the murky banks of the Green Fork beneath the Twins.

A knock on the oak chamber door drew Randyll away from thoughts of home, and he stood as a muffled voice called out tentatively.

"Lord Frey? Are you decent?"

"A moment please," he called back, stepping out from behind the table.

The fading light of the day cast a golden glow on the room, and Randyll's shadow stretched out before him as he stepped towards the door. He opened it slightly and peered outside, smiling and opening the door fully when he recognized his cousin's son, Damon Lannister.

"Damon! What brings you to my door at this hour?"

The man, who Randyll referred to fondly as "nephew," seemed frazzled. He ran his fingers through his thick blond curls and offered a grim smile.

"I apologize if I am disturbing you, uncle. I'm afraid I was... distracted... at the feast and did not get the chance to speak with you. Do you have a minute? I'd like to talk with you about the matter addressed at the King's court." Damon glanced down the hallway, then nodded to Lord Frey's chambers. "May I come in?"

"Of course, Damon. Come in."

Randyll had always been fond of Damon. In truth, he liked to think of Damon as his son, though he was closer to the boy's age than the boy's father's. Their two houses had been wound close by marriage, and Randyll had been raised at Casterly Rock alongside the budding lion brothers, Tyrius and Loren. Tyrius was dead now though, brought down by an axe during the Battle of Pyke. But Loren was as close as a brother to Randyll, and his children were like Randyll's own.

"Please, take a seat." Randyll said, gesturing to the two chairs before crossing the room to draw the curtains shut. "So this is about the Greyjoy's, eh?" he continued, pouring a glass of Arbor gold. "The King has agreed to weaken the Iron Fleet, and I was close to being ten thousand gold dragons richer from the agreement, not that I did anything to deserve it. Mind you, us Freys need not deserve anything, we just take our toll." Randyll chuckled, grinning at Damon who accepted the cup of wine with a smile. "However, I take it you feel more needs to be done. What is the matter?" He sat alongside his nephew and leaned in close, his emerald eyes glimmering in the candlelight.

Damon drank deeply from the cup before responding, and managed a smile afterwards, though his eyes looked tired.

"Well you were kind enough to present his Grace with options, I noted. Ten thousand gold dragons or a sizeable chunk of the iron fleet: I'm honestly not sure which would have been the better toll. Orys Connington remarked that you pillaged the king more with a few sentences than the Greyjoys did with their raiders." He looked briefly at his hands before gazing up at Randyll with the fierce green eyes of a Lannister.

"The Lord of Harlaw is intent on securing the Iron Islands for himself. He's a native ironborn, with the wealth of Harlaw behind him, not to mention an army of men who would fall on their swords for him. Out of fear of him, mostly, but it's an army nonetheless. He has the King's favor. If it weren't for him, I'd think the odds were good of replacing Aeron with my sister, Ashara. Aeron Greyjoy is a liability, everyone knows it." His gaze had dropped back down to his cup as he spoke, but he looked up suddenly at those final words, "I'm worried that the Lord of Harlaw will do something stupid."

Randyll took a moment to digest the information, then nodded and said, "I agree. The ironborn cannot be trusted, whether they are Greyjoy or Harlaw or Codd. Each and every one of their men are nothing more than reavers, and they're certainly not fit to rule their own kingdom. A Lannister would be perfect for the job, especially one with knowledge of the islands, but your sister?"

He poured himself a cup of wine and refilled Damon's glass before handing the chalice back to the lordling.

"Why place your sister on the Seastone Chair, when we have you? Lord Damon Lannister, Lord of Pyke and the Iron Islands!" Randyll raised his glass in a toast.

Damon hesitated, but raised his cup politely and took a long drink of wine.

"Truthfully, uncle," he said, setting the cup down, "I care little to sit on some seaweed throne on one of those craggy, bleak islands, even if it were Harlaw itself, which everyone knows to be the better island. Especially since I would likely have to marry a Greyjoy to keep it. Have you been to the Iron Isles? Their women act like men, and their men act like beasts."

"You are more fit for a throne than you know, my boy," Randyll said warmly, "You may not see it yet, but I do."

"Kind words, uncle, but my lord father scarcely sees me fit to rule Casterly Rock." Damon responded glumly. It was true, Randyll knew. Loren was a hard man, and harder still on his children. As his eldest son, Damon received the brunt of his displeasure, and Damon's many vices did little to change that. "I just wish…" Damon seemed about to say something, but he shook his head and continued anew, "I just wish I knew that Lord Duran could be trusted completely. I've heard tales of the Battle of Lannisport, but he's not family, and can anyone outside of family truly be trusted?"

"No man can truly be trusted Damon, we all hold our secrets."

In his mind's eye he could see the Twin's laid out before him. The tower had been so high that the men below had seemed large as gnats. _Bend the knee to your liege lord! He_ had called down, and the Tully had done so.

"I'd wager even your lord father holds some."

Damon seemed doubtful.

"My lord father is as hard as Casterly Rock itself and colder than the Wall, but he has always been forthcoming. He has never once shied away from pointing out my shortcomings." The young lordling brought his glass to his lips, only to find the cup empty. "_Family is everything_, he tells me, yet I find more warmth in this cup than in him."

"He was never a warm man, your father." Randyll replied, taking a drink from his own glass, "But he was warmer before your mother's death."

"And afterwards you would have thought it was he who was sent off to the Iron Isles to ward under _Alannys Greyjoy_." Damon spat the name out. "He shares her mirth, in that he has none." Damon's brow furrowed, but after a moment he smiled. "Thaddius once called her All grey No joy. He could not sit for a week."

Randyll had meant to speak with Thaddius before his departure, but the youngest Lannister son was the King's white shadow, and Randyll never had the chance.

"All the better for it," Randyll said, refilling both their glasses. "A man should learn to hold his tongue at times, especially in the presence of kings."

"Seems as though King Harys would prefer a kingsguard of mutes." Damon swirled the dark red liquid in his glass thoughtfully. "Thaddius looked bored half to death standing there in that white cloak. It looked to be choking the life out of him."

Randyll could not help but agree. The youngest Lannister son had always been a willful boy, and never happier than when he had a sword in his hands. A life of servitude seemed ill-fitted to the man, yet on his seventeenth nameday he had donned the white cloak and taken the vows. Loren's work, Randyll was almost certain of it. _Hard as Casterly Rock._

But Randyll knew that sometimes a man had to be hard. _Bend the knee!_ he had called down, and Hoster Tully had done so. Such a small thing, he had thought, to bend knees so easily… But when he thought of Belandra and his children he could not help but think that perhaps it was not so small, and not so easy.

He reached for his glass, only to find it empty.

"Perhaps, Damon," Randyll said, sitting back in his chair, "But Thaddius has the King's ear, and I am certain he speaks high praise of House Lannister. This Harlaw holds no such sway."

The room had grown dark and Randyll rose to light a candle.

"I apologize, uncle." Damon said, standing. "I've taken enough of your time."

"No need to apologize," Randyll said, "It is good to know I am not alone in my concerns about the ironborn. If ever a Lannister seeks the Seastone Chair, know that I shall be more than willing to lend my support."

The men embraced, and Damon departed, footfalls echoing in the quiet hallway. Randyll sat back down and poured himself another glass of wine. _I'm drunk,_ he realized as he turned over the glass with a grasping hand.

The red liquid spread over the table like a map of blood.

**- AEMON -**

Aemon gazed out over the makeshift tents surrounding the ruins of Summerhall.

_So few men… _he thought, troubled. He had hoped that more would respond to the urgency of his message, yet only his own two-hundred soldiers sat in the camp below along with two-hundred men from a lesser Reach house.

_Four-hundred men, _Aemon thought, _Four-hundred brave men... I will hate to see them die. _

"Lord Estermont!" Aemon turned as a young man came running up the rise. He recognized the boy as Ser Eldon's squire, a loyal lad, and quick to serve.

"My lord," the boy repeated, having reached the top of the rise. He quickly knuckled his forehead and kneeled."Thirty lanced riders bearing the direwolf sigil have entered the camp from the North."

_Perhaps not so few._

Aemon smiled, looking down at the kneeling squire. "Knees weren't made for bending to the likes of me boy, save that for the King when he arrives."

_If he arrives,_ he thought, the smile disappearing from his face. "Direct the young Lord Stark to my tent. There's a battle to plan."

"Yes, m'lord."

Aemon didn't wait to hear the boy's response. Instead he walked swiftly down the rise. The camp, when he reached it, was a bustle of activity. All around him soldiers sharpened swords and prepared torches, Hightower and Estermont alike.

_Four-hundred men and not even fifty of them knights, _Aemon thought sourly. He'd equipped his archers with tar and pitch and his knights with obsidian daggers, but still he did not like those odds. "Dead men don't fear death," his father had once told him. These wights would not break like men, and they would not flee like men. It would be a bloody affair, no matter the number.

Ser Lomas was waiting for him when Aemon finally reached the tent, a broad man, more comfortable on the deck of a ship than on solid ground.

"Aemon," he said as the two clasped hands. "We've received ravens from High Garden and the Iron isles, they've pledged three-hundred men to our cause."

"Three-hundred men who won't arrive until the fighting is long over." Aemon surveyed the maps laid out on the table. "Where are the Eastern lords? Where is the King?"

"Still no word from King's Landing."

The news was troubling and Aemon glanced once more at the crude map of the Rainwood laid out before him. "We have too few men, Lomas… and too much ground to cover."

A commotion outside the tent interrupted Lomas' reply and the two men turned as a third figure entered, recognized immediately by the obsidian wolf clasp sitting at his neck.

"Lord Stark-" Lomas began, bowing to the young northern lord who, upon glancing at the knight, promptly ignore him and instead crossed over to the table, grey eyes weighing the Estermont lord standing behind it.

"Came as soon as I received the letter, Estermont. You'd better be sure of this White Walker business. Talking of things that do not exist will surely hurt more than just your reputation."

"Lord Stark," Aemon responded as the young man began rifling through the papers. "I wish I could tell you these were simply the imaginings of a weary mind, but it is not so. Since the original sighting my men dare not set foot into the Rainwoods. Undead animals with glowing blue eyes have been seen from the coastline and-" he hesitated, "there has been no word from Mistwood castle or Rain House for days. We must move strongly and quickly once the king's forces arrive. I worry that Stonehelm may be next."

Edmure smirked and tightened his grip on the pike in his hands, twisting the pole into the ground. "Since your men seem to be scared, it will be your lucky day. I will lead the van with my men."

_Brash young fool,_ Aemon thought, glancing towards Lomas who shook his head slightly. "Young Lord Stark, this is no Dreadfort rebellion; you will find no glory here. These creatures do not fear like men, and they will not fall like men. Perhaps you would do best to have caution."

The stone face seemed to glower at Aemon's words.

"My men don't fear the dead, or they wouldn't have killed so many men." Edmure sniffed and glanced at Lomas. "Stick to your ships, Estermont, and I will stick to what I do best: tossing these sacks of dead flesh with my pike."

Aemon began to voice his objections, but the young Stark lord was growing impatient and cut him off before he could begin. "I will lead the van, Estermont, or I will lead my men back home!"

"Careful, lord Stark." Edmure whirled towards the entranceway where a black haired man stood, bearing the rough face and hands of an ironborn sailor. "I know King Harys, and he often prefers to lead the van himself."

"Lord Harlaw," the northern lord said tersely, sizing up the man and the reaper emblem emblazoned on his breastplate. "I'm surprised to see you so far from the Iron Islands."

Aemon shared in the man's surprise. Though he had sent ravens to every corner of the realm he had only truly expected support from the stormlords.

"I was in King's Landing when the raven arrived," Durran sniffed, marching to the head of the table and beginning to pour over the maps. "King Harys and I had matters to discuss."

"Pray tell, Lord Harlaw, where is King Harys?"

The ironborn gave Aemon only a cursory glance before returning his gaze to the papers laid out before him.

"I had hoped to have the support of his men. As of this moment we have far too few for the task ahead."

_Far too few, and far too young, _Aemon thought, looking over the two lords before him with a tired eye. They had seen battle, Aemon knew, the Harlaw during the second Greyjoy Rebellion and the Stark during the Dreadfort Rebellion. They'd seen battle and lived, true, but it was just as likely to be prowess as it was luck, and Aemon could only pray to the gods that it was the first.

The Harlaw lord waved his hand dismissively and responded with a smirk. "The King was far too busy to personally take part in a grumpkin hunt. Nonetheless, he saw fit to send five-hundred men chasing after shadows."

Aemon was silent. He knew what he'd seen in the hold of that ship, and any who doubted him would learn soon enough that some shadows had more substance than men.

**- VARYO -**

Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, a darkened hall, like most on Lys, stank with the scent of sex. Arrayed on pillows around the hall, men and women - and some of indescribable sexes - coupled and drank. On a raised stadia in the centre, two of the most highly sought-after courtesans performed a captivating erotic performance, protected by two eunuchs. They were heavy with the blood of old Valyria, and men, and women, came from across the world, and paid a chest of gold to bed a whore with dragon's blood.

Tonight's clientele was not wealthy enough to warm their bodies with the purple-eyed, silver-haired girls, so they contented themselves with their view, and cheaper girls and boys to sate their appetites.

Into this room walked Varyo Velaryon, with the easy grace of one raised in Lyscene higher society, but still with a little nerve; the pleasure houses had always slightly scared him, and he had been half a boy when he left his island home. Avoiding the various whores and dancers, he took the long walk to the dais at the far end of the hall. He was acutely aware, of being watched, despite the debauchery around him.

_Sellswords don't live long unless they are careful_, he reminded himself, _And these have certainly lived long enough_.

The dais was even more in shadow than the rest of the hall. Varyo greeted the figures sat there with a short bow.

"Yarro Brokensteel, it's a pleasure to see you again. I assume you have enjoyed the city well enough?"

One of the men smirked. He had hair dyed red and gold in the Lorathi fashion, and gold trinkets woven into his forked beard. A comely young Lyscene boy was strewn across his lap.

"Lys is always a pleasure. To be able to come here on work is a fair treat indeed. These are my sergeants."

His companions were introduced after one another. There was the Cut Lord - a gelded Norvoshi captain with a rightful hatred for the Red God - John o'Steel - a Skagosi warrior built like a bear - and Illya the Torn Pocket - a dangerous water-dancer who was once a fine lady of Pentos.

The final one waited to introduce himself; he was Byman, commander of the Bright Banners, a vicious older man with a rank beard and clothing who called himself Mansbane, although most called him the Blight for his many poxes he had gained serving every city on Essos.

Varyo nodded at the mercenaries. Yarro he knew, and he could pick the Blight out by sight, but the others were new to him.

"I suppose you have heard I am gathering swords on Bloodstone?" Varyo asked

"Would I have let you distract me from my spoils if I had not?" Yarro laughed and sent his boy running with a smack. "Our Maiden's Men, and Byman's Bright Banners can give you 3000 swords. But we need to know what assurances we can get of our price."

"Aerion will provide, if we win of course. And anyway, the Lion backs our enterprise. If you serve us well, then I'm sure land would be provided too, if you could hold them."

Across the hall, one of the more drunk Sellswords stood up and grabbed at one of the expensive girls near him. The two eunuchs were soon upon him. Holding his arms back, they waited whilst the girl stuffed a cloth in his mouth. The Sellsword struggled, but foam began to drip from the corners of the cloth; and he made the acquaintance of Lys's other great talent.

"A toast then!" Yarro shouted "to fire and blood, gold and steel!" His companions raised their wine likewise. Across the hall, a servant dragged the dead man past the coupling bodies. Barely anyone paused for less than an instant.

**- AEMON -**

The day broke with a chill dawn. During the night, a thick fog had risen from the damp ground, and fat raindrops fell lethargically, pinging against the iron helms of the assembled men. Aemon watched the skies warily. He was used to the weather of the sea where clouds gathered threateningly on the horizon before breaking on the ship in white crested waves. Here, beneath the looming foliage, he felt as if he were caged, and he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, painfully aware of the confidence with which the other lords rode into the fog.

As the columns advanced through the forest, a silence hung over them. Men held their torches high, peering into the shadows for the telltale glowing of blue eyes. Yet, the very trees of the Rainwood seemed to extinguish the light, their twisted branches blocking out every last trace of sunlight. As they made their slow march towards Mistwood Castle, the fog seemed to thicken, choking out what little light filtered through the branches.

_The seven protect us,_ Aemon thought.

Ser Lomas rode at Aemon's side, his grey palfrey skittish in the rolling fog. Through the trees, Aemon could make out the other lord's banners - Durran, Stark, Hightower, all hanging low from their pikes like windless sails. King Harys' men led the vanguard, and even now Aemon's breath caught at the sight of the Sword of the Morning, a member of the king's own Kingsguard, wielding the greatsword Dawn like a milky white beacon.

Aemon's own men wielded an assortment of dragonglass weapons: polearms, and daggers, relics that his father had kept in the armory at Greenstone. The king's forces and the Harlaw soldiers had some dragonglass of their own as well, but Edmure Stark had only laughed when offered the obsidian, and the Hightower lord had preferred the weight of castle-forged steel between his hands. _Brash young fools, _Aemon had thought, touching his own dagger briefly before tugging his horse's reins and cantering off to his troops.

Now, with half a day behind them and no end to the rain in sight, Aemon was growing sore in his saddle. He cared little for the animals, and Ser Lomas seemed to share the sentiment.

"Give me the sway of a ship's deck over the sway of a horse any day," the man jibbed, and Aemon could only nod in silent agreement. Better to think about what sat between their feet than what lay before them. His stomach was a hard knot.

Far ahead, deep in the fog, a single trumpet called out. Harooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, sounding to Aemon's ears like some great dying beast. The sound cut off suddenly only to be joined by another, off to the left and in the fog. Aemon gripped the reins tightly as a third horn called out, this time so close that it could have been Lomas blowing it.

Harooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

The fog was so thick that Lomas was merely a black specter now. Aemon drew his shortsword and called out to his men, "Send them to feast in their father's halls!" The closest ones drew their weapons, but the fog seemed to dull the sound. Close by the trumpet's wail pierced the air once more, this time alongside the clash of steel.

_The Seven protect us_, Aemon thought.

And figures came running out of the darkness.

Aemon's battle shrunk to the few feet of ground around his horse as the first ragged man attacked. Cobbled mail and a half-helm did little to protect the man from Aemon's steel and he lashed out low, slicing a deep gash in the man's face and severing his jaw. The figure came forward heedlessly, blue eyes glowing in the mist, and Aemon swung his torch around, shoving the burning stake into the thing's face. Its tongue flapped wordlessly as it was set alight, but already there was another on his left and a second on his right, and he kicked his horse forward, leaving the burning figure flailing in its small pool of light.

"Set them alight!" he shouted, but his men had already disappeared behind him.

All around there seemed to be a sea of fog filled with points of flickering light. Another pair of burning blue eyes leaped out, skin peeling from its thin frame, but Aemon's horse bolted before he could bring his torch level. _Blasted animal._ He gritted his teeth and held onto the reins with his sword hand, the torch held aloft in his left.

Amongst the roots of a twisted tree, a knight bearing the stoney white watchtower of House Hightower fought two wights as Aemon rode past. The man fell beneath them as one clawed desperately at his steel plate while the other wrung its hands around his neck, a sword hanging forgotten through its bowels. The man's scream faded behind Aemon as his horse rode heedlessly onward, and he pulled on the reins, trying to turn the beast around. But too late, he noticed the pale figures to his left, and he was flung from the horse as it reared, kicking and biting at the wights.

The fall knocked the breath from his body, and the world throbbed. His lungs gasped desperately for air. He still clung tightly to his sword, he was thankful for that much at least, but the torch had extinguished itself on the damp ground, and his horse was nowhere to be seen. Aemon fought his way to his knees, his breastplate felt constricting, and he drew in air sharply as he got to his feet. Dented no doubt. There was no time to stop though, no time even to remove the dented iron. He twisted on his heels and ran back the way he had come.

_We have to hold the line. _

Shouts and screams drifted to Aemon's ears as he ran. The fog curled around roots and clung to tree trunks like a death veil. Two figures emerged from the darkness, and Aemon lifted his shortsword to defend himself before he saw the torches in their hands.

"Lord Estermont!" the first shouted. It was Ser Eldon, sword in hand and a gash across his left arm. The second man bore the sigil of house Harlaw on his breast and limped noticeably as they approached.

From somewhere off in the fog a voice shouted out.

"My gods, what are these vile things!"

Ser Eldon turned, but Aemon had already grabbed the torch from the Harlaw man's hand and sprinted towards the source. He'd recognized the voice, Lord Edmure Stark, and without a dragonglass weapon to his name.

With a deep battle cry, Aemon broke into a clearing. Wielding a flaming torch in one hand and an obsidian shortsword in the other, he lunged at the first figure which loomed over the young Stark lord. The swing of his torch barely missed the creatures face, but the thrust of his sword found its mark.

Screaming, the white walker fell.

"Lord Stark, get back to the line! These creatures cannot be killed by weapons of steel!" Edmure's pike spun and dipped beneath one of the creature's defenses, but without the dragonglass tip it was next to useless.

Turning, Aemon thrust his torch into the thing's open jaw, sending it careening backwards. Eldon, who had jumped through the bracken to join the fray, quickly dispatched it with his obsidian dagger. The third white walker had already fallen.

From the trees entered a hulking form - a bear, the flesh already rotting off of its body. Letting out a roar that reeked of death, it charged.

"Run, Lord Stark!"

Aemon turned towards the beast, shortsword drawn as it advanced. He swung his torch low, and the thing stopped for a moment, blue eyes reflecting the dull torchlight.

"I do not run, Lord Estermont!"

The Stark was at his side now, ragged and panting, but holding his pike steady as he jabbed it sharply at the bear. The beast rose on its hind legs and roared. Its underbelly had been torn open and entrails hung out like coiled rope.

_Jeyne,_ Aemon thought as the thing advanced once more. _Martin, Elwin, Bennet, Wimarc, Elena, little Katherine._ The thought of his wife and children gave him strength and he held his ground with steel resolve.

Suddenly, a figure dressed all in white-silver armor hurdled over a fallen tree and slid a glowing milk-glass blade through the mouth of the bear. The animal swatted at the shadow, but the man dodged and plunged a torch into its gaping maw. With a sound like wind filling a sail, the fire caught and the great beast was set aflame, filling the clearing with light.

"Ulrich!"

The Sword of the Morning turned as the bear collapsed and pulled his glowing blade out of the thing's skull. The steel shone like the sun itself and it seemed to Aemon almost as if it radiated warmth.

"My lords," the man said, resheathing the legendary sword. "I believe the battle is won."

**- DAMON -**

Damon Lannister was tired and unhappy. When he awoke in King's Landing a few days earlier, there was an unfamiliar body in his bed. Well, somewhat familiar - was that one of the cupbearers? A kitchen wench? Or the young woman in charge of keeping the wine pitcher in his chambers full? No matter, he hadn't been happy to see her. He knew right away that he had overslept and was late. He was supposed to leave for the tourney at Harrenhal hours ago. The journey was long and he had wanted time to relax and feast in the fort beforehand.

Instead, he and his entourage arrived in Harrenhal rather late in the day before the tournament. Tents were set up, drinks were poured, and hopeful young knights were already practicing diligently when they finally made their way through the impromptu city of canvas.

Damon had planned on watching his younger brother honor House Lannister in the melee from a drunken stupor in the stands. Instead, his father informed him that he would be participating in the joust. He was rather unhappy about it.

It wasn't that Damon was a poor jouster. On the contrary, as the heir to Casterly Rock he had the best training that gold could buy, along with the finest armor and an excellent ride. But if the choice was between a case of firebrand wine and beautiful high born women, and a heavy suit of armor and a spear, it wasn't a difficult decision for the young Lannister.

Amongst his company were his younger brother Thaddius and Albar Clegane, Lord of Clegane's Keep. The rest of the men had been dismissed to enjoy the tourney, but Albar stayed at Damon's side. He had been instructed by Lord Loren to keep an eye on the heir.

"It may do him good to spend time amongst the Cleganes instead of amongst his drinks and whores," was what Loren had said. "Once at the tournament do your best to keep him away from the drink and focused on the joust, I will not have House Lannister made a fool of once again by that boy."

It was with those words in mind that Albar decided to stay beside his liege lord's son when the rest of the men left to pursue games, drinks, and all manner of unsavory entertainment.

After signing up for the Archery tournament, Edmure, Lord of Winterfell, retired to his personal tent. It was a tent that rose higher than the others around it with the canvas colored in the hues of his house. It sat on a raised wooden dais and a direwolf banner waved proudly in a cool wintry breeze just outside the entrance. Without a doubt, this was the tent of Lord Stark. With his men camped around him he could hear the loud drunken laughter and rough toned jokes of the Northmen in his company. The noise made it difficult to concentrate as he sat reading letters, trying to keep up with the talk and rumors of the Seven Kingdoms.

His desk was strewn with letters and a candle burned low at his elbow. This was how Damon found him as he walked past the tent with his brother and Lord Clegane. The Lannister hadn't seen Lord Edmure since being insulted by him at the King's Court.

"Stark," he greeted him with a smirk, leaving out his Lordly title, "What a pleasure it is to see you reading a book. I did not think northerners to be literate, I can say that I learned something new today!"

Edmure looked up at Damon with a disgruntled frown. He was dressed in fur and leather, with an obsidian sigil clasp, and wore a bored expression on his face. He seemed to be in a more forgiving mood then he was at King's Landing. He tossed the letters aside and sat back in his chair.

"Plan on making another spectacle today, Lannister? Maybe you will ask the King to be his Hand?" He laughed at his own joke, his northern face cut like melt water on a crag. "So tell me, Lannister, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" He looked appraisingly over Thaddius and Clegane, and added, "I see you got yourself a Hound. I pray to your gods he is at least half the man his ancestor was, and twice as tame."

"Lord Albar is a friend," Damon smiled. "And if you call him Hound to his face again you will likely find out just what sort of man he is."

The Lannister looked around Stark's tent with amusement. It was rather bleak and dreary, filled with dark colors and heavy furs, the northern man being known for his hunting prowess. Damon looked out of place in it with his flashy Lannister garb of red and gold, armor polished to a bright shine.

"You know," he remarked carefully, "Most of what I've heard of northerners has proved true - they're slow witted, quick tempered, and can hardly think two days into the future. But one thing I don't think true for a minute is what people say about their appetite for drink. Direwolf men brag about the mead their fat bellies can hold but I don't think there's a man north of the Stony Sept who could out drink me."

He grinned arrogantly down his nose at Lord Edmure, waiting to see if he would take the bait.

At that moment, Jojen Stark walked into the tent from the back, sporting a grin like a cat that's caught a bird, along with a new scar. The younger brother of the Lord Paramount of the North, Jojen had the red brown hair of a Tully and the grey blue eyes of the Starks. He was a strikingly handsome young man, wifeless, and with a reputation for winning the favors of noble women.

"Brother!" he greeted Edmure. "You'll be glad to know I'm here, so you can drink some of this." He walked straight up to Edmure and handed him a flask of wine. "I've already seen fit to get you a woman!" He moved out of the way slightly and behind him stood three women, all comely, although with some flaws that usually came with camp followers. "Choose one, the other two are for the morning." He leaned onto the table and eyed the Lannister brothers and the Clegane warily.

Edmure met his brother's smirk. "Jojen, it looks like we found ourselves a couple of friends." He glanced at the whores at his younger brother's side and a brief look of disapproval crossed his face before he turned back to their visitors.

"Well, Lannisters," Edmure gestured for the Westernman to sit. "It seems you have came at a good time, my mood is rather dampened by these letters. So I assume you have brought the wine, show me what you have! And don't think Clegane here can slip out of this party, it won't do unless we are all enjoying ourselves."

Damon had been wearing a smile ever since he saw the younger Stark brother enter.

_Perhaps I can take down two wolves with one stone this evening,_ he thought.

He turned and stuck his head outside the tent, motioning for a yellow haired servant to bring the wine.

"You needn't worry, Stark, I've enough wine for all of us. Including Albar, if he chooses to stay. He is a lord, he does as he pleases," he said in reference to Stark's demand that Clegane stay, "Though I'm sure he wouldn't mind partaking in some merriment after our long journey."

The servant carried in several heavy crates and placed them on the floor in the tent. "From the beautiful kingdom of Dorne," Damon explained. "I don't know if you can get such fine drink in the frozen north."

He took a seat across from Edmure and poured several cups. Raising one to the Lord of Winterfell, he toasted, "To King Harys Baratheon!" and downed the drink quickly, slamming the cup back onto the table when he finished. He refilled the cup, careful not to spill wine on any of the letters strewn carelessly about the table.

"There, I hope I've convinced you that I'm not poisoning you," he smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Now let's see if a Stark can out drink a Lannister!"

He watched the Lord with a grin. Damon had no intention of getting inebriated tonight. Rather, he planned to play at Stark's competitiveness and hatred for Lannisters, coaxing Edmure into a long and sleepless night of drunkenness, ultimately causing him to fail at the archery tournament the following day.

The men drank late into the night. Cup after cup after cup was poured and the crates of fine drink from the southernmost kingdom slowly emptied. Jojen and Thaddius sat off to the side, a giggling whore on each of their laps, and drank and sang along with their older brothers, while Lord Albar stood somberly in the corner, watching the scene with caution and the slightest hint of distaste.

"Two Starks and two Lannisters in one room, and not a single drop of blood has been spilt," Jojen whispered to Thaddius with a smirk as his brother broke into a loud and drunken song, with Damon chiming in for one out of every ten words, the lyrics of the Northern hymn lost to him.

Thaddius smiled. "Well now, isn't this interesting. Jojen, I must say that it's good to see you again. I see you've been enjoying what the south has to offer," he nodded at the woman on the young knight's lap.

Jojen winked. "It is good to see you, too, Thaddius. I trust you are doing well in the Kingsguard? I could never do that, I like my women too much!" he gave his whore a spank and she laughed drunkenly and swatted at him. "I do love the southern girls, especially."

The Lannister laughed, "Yes, the Kingsguard is…" He paused and thought about his choice of words carefully. "Well, I suppose it's everything you know and think it is. Lonely. But such is the life in order to protect our king." He grit his teeth and forced a smile. The truth was, Thaddius loved the Kingsguard little. He had joined at the insistence of his older brother, who he was always looking to please.

After a couple more hours and quite a few more drinks, the younger lion turned back to the Stark and spoke again, this time slurring his words a bit. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and he wondered how many drinks he had poured. "You know I must say, Jojen, and don't let my brother know I said this, but the mettle you Starks have has always impressed me. When I was younger I thought it was stupidity. But…" He glanced over at Edmure, sitting proud and tall in his furs, skinning knife gleaming at his hip, "Well dare I say, I respect you." He smiled and gave a weak laugh. "You will never get me to repeat that, but it is true nonetheless."

Jojen grinned, "I'm quite sure I could get you to say it again." He shot a wary glance at his older brother, and added, "He has his moments, but he is a good man. I will also admit that I find myself admiring you Lannisters. You truly are a house." He took a swig of his drink and then buried his face in the neck of his whore for a moment, kissing and nipping at her neck before turning back to Thaddius. "By the way, is your sweet sister going to be at the tourney?"

"My sister?" Thaddius' face grew still. "She will be. But it looks like you have your hands full. Besides I don't think you could handle a Lannister woman. Are you participating in the tourney, Jojen?"

"Oh, there's always room for one more!" Jojen laughed, then answered, "Yes I will be participating in melee and jousting, will you?"

"I shall see you in the melee," Thaddius replied, raising an eyebrow. "As for my sister, I very much doubt you could even handle her."

"Don't tempt me!" Jojen winked.

"You are already tempted, I can see that," he smiled and moved closer to whisper, "I would threaten you away from her, but she can handle herself. Be warned, Jojen." He gave him a pat on the back and leaned back into his chair, sliding an arm around the waist of the whore on his lap.

"You know, It has been too long since a Stark and a Lannister crossed their blades." Jojen smirked. "I do hope I see you within the tournament. It would be nice to see what the two youngest men of our houses can do."

Although never taking his eye off Damon, Edmure seemed to be enjoying himself, now drinking two for every one that Damon had, forgetting it was even a contest. He was starting to become noticeably drunk, and his cold Stark face seemed like it was melting with every cup.

"So, Damon, will you be participating in the joust? I heard quite the stories when I was younger. Or did you perhaps just come to snake around like the rest of these southerners, and scheme?"

Damon looked up from his cup. He had been nursing the same wine for at least an hour now, but the Starks were too drunk to notice. If one were to attempt to refill his hardly touched drink, a spontaneous take on "The Bear and the Maiden Fair" again would be enough of a distraction to have him forget all about it.

"I will joust, yes," he replied, thoughtfully tapping the side of his cup with a finger. "You know you called me a greenboy in court several days past, and now you admit that you were aware to some extent of my skill at arms," he cocked his head to the side and gave a small smile. "I wouldn't be much of a Lannister if I couldn't swing a sword or knock some steel man off a horse. People say money can't buy you everything, but it can buy you the best master of arms in the realm, as well as the strongest armor and the finest horse. My father knows that."

He looked at Edmure with the faintest hint of admiration, "Put a bow in my hand however and I'm absolutely hopeless. No amount of gold seems to be able to change that." He took a swig of his wine, finally. _Though I would certainly like to see the talented Lord Stark hit a target in this state, _he thought.

"Here, let me refill your cup."

Edmure was starting to get dizzy, eyeing both the lions and the rather large Clegane. At the mention of archery, he began to grow suspicious that Damon had been pouring him far too many drinks. But it was too late now, he was already beyond drunk.

He unsheathed his skinning knife and slammed it with a _THUD_ into the table, a hair away from Damon's hand as he reached for his cup. The laughter ceased, the women jumped up, and the mood in the tent turned tense. With its milky white handle fashioned to look like a pack of wolves, the blade was curved like a claw, beautiful at first but eerily dull from use.

Edmure broke the tense silence with a laugh, and released his grip on the knife and sat back in his chair.

"I have had my fill for now, Lannister. I thank you for the wine and I will see that not a drop is wasted. I will also repay you with the hospitality of the North whenever you wish... Not that a cub could handle our cold winters. Now you must excuse me, I am a busy man, the luxuries of wine and women are best left to men like you and my brother."

He turned for a moment to glower at Jojen, tired of the racket he had been making with the two women. "Perhaps you can take him with you, I will not get any work done with this man and his two whores giggling in my tent. Who knows? Maybe you will enjoy his company far more than mine."

Jojen looked over at his brother with a mischievous grin, "I don't know, brother, you two seem to be getting along just fine." He laughed. "But I shall go. The Lannisters can go back to their tent. Come, ladies, I need some relaxation before the tourney!"

Damon maintained his composure, eyeing the skinning blade cautiously. He had heard the stories of flayed prisoners and cloaks of women's skin. Having met Edmure for himself, he now believed them to be true more than ever. He decided he'd better leave while he still had all ten fingers, and stood and bowed politely.

"My lords, I have enjoyed your company immensely. I guess this night goes to show that the lion and the wolf are capable of not behaving as cats and dogs. Speaking of night," he glanced at the roof of the tent, somewhat illuminated by a rising sun, "It appears this one is nearly spent. I wish you both luck in the games today."

He offered farewell to the both of them with, "My lords Stark," and nodded to his younger brother and Lord Clegane, indicating they should follow. He turned and with a flash of his red cloak departed the tent.

**- AESLYN -**

Lady Aeslyn Targaryen strode along between the rows of tents, her small household guard behind her, admiring their colors and banners. House Targaryen had no great canvas tents, nor black and red flags, nor images of three headed dragons emblazoned on the shields of brave knights. In fact, they had no knights at all.

Since the War of Five Kings, the Targaryen House had fallen into poverty and ruin. The line of the family that united Westeros was allowed to continue through the children of Daenerys, but they were quartered in Flea's Bottom and their place at court was more of a polite courtesy than a position of power.

Lady Aeslyn, at the age of two and twenty, was now the head of that household. Both of her parents were deceased, and her only other sibling was a sister of eight and ten, Danae. Aeslyn was not pessimistic about her future, however. The two sisters were considered by many to be the most beautiful in all the seven kingdoms.

They were both petite, fair skinned and slender, with long flowing hair of a silvery blonde hue, and vibrant purple eyes. Apart from sharing the common physical traits of their ancestors, the sisters could not have been two more different people.

As a child, Danae often played alone while her father and sister took their places in the court at King's Landing. Danae always had an interest in reading and even amassed a large library composed mainly of books handed down through her family over the years. She was fascinated especially by the higher mysteries and enjoyed music, nature, and horsemanship.

Aeslyn, on the other hand, was fascinated by things like hairstyles, needlework, and the men at court. Even now, as she wandered between banners of griffins, and snakes, and mermaids, her eyes scanned the crowds of smallfolk, squires, noblemen, and knights, taking in the handsome faces, the sparkling armor, the muscular builds of the men with great swords at their hips, some of the blades as long as she was tall.

So engrossed was she in her observance of a particular knight with dark hair and a glittering turquoise breastplate, that she did not see the one in front of her, and walked right into him.

"My lord," she quickly, apologized, stepping back, her hands flying to her gown to smooth out any wrinkles.

Thaddius Lannister turned around, startled, and bowed. The knight of the Kingsguard was enjoying a rare moment of respite, away from King Harys' side while another of the sworn swords protected his life. When he looked up from his bow, it was into the violet eyes of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

"My… My lady, please, forgive me, I did not see you there," he said, stammering somewhat. Thaddius was not accustomed to speaking to women, especially ones as undeniably attractive as the lady who stood before him now. He did not posses his older brother's gift for charm, nor did he have the same freedom to chase women, given that he was a member of the Kingsguard and sworn to take no wives and father no children.

Thaddius Lannister took his vows very seriously. With Damon serving as nothing but a source of their father's ire, he felt an immense amount of pressure to pick up the slack of his brother. Loren Lannister looked with pride on his second born son, whose skill at arms was so renowned that it led to his appointment to the Kingsguard at a rather young age, and Thaddius was always careful to avoid anything that would bring their house shame.

Aeslyn looked up and down at the knight before her, clad in shining white armor with a matching cloak about his shoulders. He was tall, taller than his older brother, and his pretty blonde hair framed a boyish face. Thaddius was younger than her, and he had an air of youthfulness about him.

"Ser Lannister," she said with a flirtatious smile, recognizing him at once. "I am thankful that it is _you_ I have run into, a man most chivalrous, and not some ruffian hedge knight instead, else I might have found myself a damsel in distress."

Thaddius reddened. "You are most kind, Lady...ah, Lady…"

"Targaryen," she finished for him, inwardly annoyed that he did not recognize her. Then again, at court Thaddius stayed close to the King, and she was relegated to a spot in the back. She maintained her smile anyways. "Aeslyn Targaryen. Are you looking forward to any of the games in particular, today?" she asked.

"Well, the melee should be exciting," he responded, much more comfortable discussing matters of combat than exchanging pleasantries, "But nothing will be able to top the archery competition this morning. Lord Edmure Stark was completely inebriated. He was firing arrows so far off the mark, they were starting to get worried that he would injure someone… Until then, he did. A Lannister squire, unfortunately. They say that the poor boy likely won't live…"

Thaddius suddenly seemed to realize that perhaps he wasn't talking matters that were appropriate for a noblewoman, and he blushed again. "Forgive me, Lady Targaryen. I'm sure that you don't want to hear about squires taking arrows to the chest."

"It is no bother," Aeslyn assured him with a wave of her hand. "I would hear anything you had to say, Ser Thaddius, if it meant that I could simply remain in your presence and listen to you speak."

That _really_ made Thaddius turn red now, and he stammered out a reply. "Ah, yes, um, that is… that is very… very kind of you to say. You are very…. very kind, my lady."

Aeslyn edged closer to him, dragging her eyes over his body once more, and he almost looked as though he wanted to flee, but remained standing solemnly in front of her. "Will you be participating in the melee tomorrow?" she asked sweetly.

"I, uh, yes. Yes I will," he managed to answer.

She reached into a pocket of her gown and withdrew a handkerchief of deep obsidian, with a three headed dragon embroidered in red silk thread. "Perhaps my favor will bring you luck then," she smiled, lifting her eyes to stare into his own, green like emeralds, like all Lannisters of Casterly Rock. She took his hand and placed the handkerchief in his palm, then closed his fingers around it.

Thaddius looked down at the small, slender woman before him and felt completely at a loss. He had slain monsters from beyond the wall, beaten knights twice his age in the training yard and in tournaments across the realm, and served as one of the finest seven warriors in all seven kingdoms, and yet he had no idea how to interact with a beautiful woman.

_What am I supposed to say? What should I do? Is this the part where I kiss her hand? Does she want me to? _

Thaddius stood frozen on the spot, and the Lady of House Targaryen offered a deep curtsy before winking and striding past him, leaving the smitten knight clutching the black handkerchief with the red three headed dragon.

**- A CROW****-**

Bill was cold.

That was nothing new though; Bill usually found himself cold during his long shifts atop The Wall. The howling winds and gusting snow tended to have that effect on most men. Tonight was especially cold though, and he found himself stomping his boots against the frost crusted ice and wrapping his black cloak tightly around his body.

"The others take this chill," he said aloud, eliciting a grunt from his wall mate, Dornish Donnel, a man who was, in fact, born and raised five miles from the Deepwood Motte and had only earned his nickname because of a jape from a fellow brother about his lack of hot-bloodedness. At the moment though, Bill didn't care to tease him about his brusque response and instead tore off his gloves to blow on his icy fingers, trying to bring back a little warmth to his freezing appendages. "I know we took the vows," he said, "But some days it feels as if they actually mean to let us die at our posts."

Miles below them, the Shadow Tower sat black against the ice, and Bill thought longingly of the fire roaring in the dining hall. Old Sam, the man who kept the fire burning, wasn't likely to let anyone stand idly in front of it for long, but at the moment Bill would have preferred to be anywhere but atop this blasted wall in this blasted cold. The night was dark, and they weren't likely to see anything at all.

A metallic clank interrupted Bill's thoughts and he turned towards the winch where Dornish Donnel already stood. "Someone's comin' up," he stated, looking at Bill expectantly until the other joined him at the winch. When the two were settled, they began to turn the giant crank, a job normally reserved for mules, but one that had somehow fallen to the brothers themselves when more and more of the animals had been called away to navigate the treacherous ice of the Wall's ungraveled paths.

The two men grunted with their efforts, breath frosting in the air with each labored step. But step by step they went, the chain wrapping its way around the structure and raising the cage until finally it reached the summit. With a final screech the structure halted, and a black brother stepped through the iron gates.

"Normund," Bill called amiably, resting against the winch and smiling until he noticed the look on his brother's face. "What? What is it?"

"He's dead," Normund Vance said simply, emotionlessly. " Commander Joss is dead."

**- DANAE -**

The crisp winter air rushed to meet Danae Targaryen as she walked through the sea of tents at the tournament and attempted to recall the names of all the noble houses that her father had forced her to learn. A cloak of brown fur protected her silvery-blonde hair from the lightly falling snow and in her hands she carried an old and travel worn book titled _The Life of the Triarch Belicho_. Jousts and tournaments were of little interest to the younger lady of House Targaryen, and she intended to find a quiet place to read away from the bustle and chaos.

A young man of twenty named James Rivers accompanied her. He was tall and thin with dark green eyes and long brown hair tied into a ponytail. The waterdancer was the only guard in service to House Targaryen. Danae's older sister and the head of their house, regarded him as nothing more than a bastard with a weak sword, but Danae slowly grew to treating him as a friend. Perhaps it was because she did not have many friends.

They stopped to watch the tourney when Danae noticed a tall older man approaching her. He looked to be in his late fifties with a long beard of black hair streaked with white. The man wore long chains of metal around his neck and she recognized him as a maester.

"Hello, Lady Danae," he spoke softly and smiled at her. "I am Grand Maester Orin. I serve King Harys in King's Landing, and I lately I have noticed the presence of you and your sister at court. Tell me, how is House Targaryen of Sharp Point faring these days?"

"Not well, Grand Maester," she masked her surprise at having a member of the small council approach her. "We are but a mere shadow of the Targaryens of old. We have no true home, no armies, and very little wealth. Sharp Point is little but an abandoned watchtower we are allowed to live on out of sympathy."

He nodded along sympathetically as she spoke. "Waterdancer, would you give us a moment to converse in private?" The maester smiled apologetically at James as he moved in closer to Danae. James gave the man a wary look and walked away to inspect the tournament. Once he was out of earshot the Grand Maester whispered, "All true, but you do still have dragons."

Orin smiled at the look of shock on Danae's face and he continued speaking, "I interrogated your cousin Rhaegar after he had been sentenced to the Night's Watch. It is a shame that you must keep them in hiding. Do not worry, Lady Targaryen, as it is my intention to keep your secrets. I only ask for a small favor in return."

"And?" she seemed to have found her voice at last as she eyed the man cautiously. "No need to build up the suspense as to what that favor might be. Tell me."

"I have an interest in the magic of Old Valyria and the blood of your ancestors," he leaned in close to speak even more softly to her. "From what I can deduce, you do as well." The Grand Maester motioned to the large tome Danae held. "It is said you always travel with at least one book in hand and your eyes rarely leave its pages.

"It is my wish to take you and your sister to the Doom with your dragons. While there, it is my hope that the dragons will be strengthened by the magic of Valyria and we can then restore House Targaryen to its former glory. I've spoken to your sister of my goals and she gave me an agreement for the both of you. Seeing as she is the head of your house, it is merely out of courtesy that I am asking you now."

"And why would a Baratheon wish to aid my house? Your blood has sat upon the Iron Throne for almost as long as mine did. Why would Aeslyn consent to this?" Danae whispered as she seethed internally at her foolish sister.

"Lady Danae, you have already asked me more questions than Lady Aeslyn. Your sister is far more concerned with finding a husband than with bringing any glory to your house. I fear I do not see her leaving the continent with us. She is short-minded and licentious and will find herself pregnant with a bastard before the year is through," he looked around and stopped speaking as a large group of Lannister knights passed in revelry. "I gave up my house when I became a maester. It is true that my blood sits the throne, but what does he do of good?

'The King of Feasts' they call him. He fills his small council with his dullard friends and spends his time drinking and whoring and chasing the Tyrell girl. The Seven Kingdoms will rise against him soon and I will have my throat slit by a knife because of my blood. The realm will then find itself in a storm of swords as each pretender king rises to reach for the throne that your ancestors built. The only hope for the realm that I can see is through the blood of the dragon. Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros, but it was after his furious campaign for the Seven Kingdoms finished that the realm found peace under his rule."

Danae took in the man's words as she searched his face for any hint of falseness.

_What choices do I have?_ Danae wondered._ Do I live a life of boredom as some minor nobleman's wife? It seems foolish and rash to follow this man blindly on a journey that is sure to fail... But I prefer foolish and rash action over taking no action at all. If I am alive after the Grand Maester's plan fails I will be free in Essos and able to build a new start there._

The Grand Maester interrupted her thoughts with his next words. "All I ask is that you meet me at the Wall in a few months time. Go home and acquire your belongings. Hide your dragon in a large trunk or in any way possible. I have heard he is small and has a calm nature and this will no doubt benefit us as we travel through the Free Cities with him hidden. If your sister has any sense she will accompany you. I will meet with your cousin at the Wall and if he proves sane mayhaps he will come, too. I have a female waterdancer I have been in talks with who may possibly come along with us. The presence of waterdancers will aid us in Braavos and beyond."

After Grand Maester Orin had finished speaking he looked to her for an answer. Danae motioned towards James and the waterdancer returned to the conversation.

"James," Danae spoke softly. "How do you feel about returning to Essos?"

The waterdancer smiled excitedly and they bid goodbye to the Grand Maester as Danae let James know the details of their discussion. The smile faded from his face as he learned the extent of the Grand Maester's plan. "What's that foolish old man prattling on about? The only dragon in Westeros belongs to your cousin, and he's taken it up to freeze in the snow and ice at Castle Black."

"James," Danae began slowly and lowered her voice as she looked around and saw no one paying them any mind. "It is true that House Targaryen has been in possession of three small dragons, well, two now that Rhaegar's belongs to the Night's Watch."

"You and Aeslyn, then?! But how? I've served you for two months and I've not seen or heard of dragons."

Danae pulled at his sleeve and they walked away from the crowds to a secluded area near the sea of tents. "First of all, I need not remind you that what I am telling you could result in all of us losing our heads." She awaited his nod and continued. "After Daenerys the Mother failed to reclaim the iron throne and after she lost her dragons in Westeros she fled to the Free Cities. You've heard all this before, yes?"

"I spent many years in Braavos. Everyone knows of this. Your family lived peacefully in Braavos for generations." James nodded impatiently and motioned for her to continue.

"What remains a secret, even in Braavos, is that she fled Westeros with little to her name but three dragon eggs."

"Why didn't she just sell them?" James interjected. "Or perhaps she should have just boiled them for breakfast one morning and rid herself the trouble and death that comes with the beasts."

Danae rolled her eyes. "You're being absurd, James. Selling the eggs would have provided a profit for my house, but at what cost to the rest of the world? Dragons need masters and dragonblood is rare." She frowned at him and continued.

"My family lived in Braavos for many generations until my grandparents, Elaena and Daemon, moved our house back to Westeros to poverty and ridicule."

"Everyone in Braavos knows the stories of mad sibling-spouses Elaena and Daemon Targaryen. Rumors of their insanity spread far and wide. I remember one tale of Daemon's madness in particular…"

James was cut short as Danae interrupted sharply. "It is known throughout the Free Cities that the Braavosi gossip more than highborn ladies. As I was saying, my grandparents claimed Sharp Point, as it was secluded and left abandoned after House Bar Emmon was eradicated in the wars. Elaena and Daemon sacrificed their first three children to the flame in order to hatch the dragon eggs. However, because we had no wealth or power we had to keep the newly hatched dragons hidden on Sharp Point and they remained small and ineffectual."

James raised an eyebrow. "So your mad grandparents killed their first three children in order to raise powerless dragons?"

Danae nodded. "Elaena and Daemon spent all of their money constructing a small barrier enclosed in stone that sits hidden out in the woods and its there that we've kept the dragons for several years until my foolish cousin decided to parade his around King's Landing. Thankfully he told King Harys there was only one dragon and the king was idiotic enough to believe him."

"You mean to tell me that I've been in your service for two months and you never thought to mention that there were two dragons living in the woods near Sharp Point?" For James this day was getting stranger and stranger.

Danae shrugged. "Aeslyn and I take turns riding out there once a week early in the morning to bring them the fish we catch from the shore. You might have found out much earlier if you rose before noon each day."

She could almost see the thoughts churning in his slow mind.

"Anyway," Danae continued. "When my grandparents passed away the control of the dragons fell to their children. When our parents passed the dragons then fell to Aeslyn, Rhaegar, and me."

"I don't know, Lady Danae. I understand you are left with little choice and little power here. But even if your dragon grows in its freedom and in the magic of Old Valyria, what that stooped old maester suggests is treason," he shook his head back and forth and looked down at his feet as he dug the toe of his boot into the snow.

"I'm not saying we go to Valyria, James," Danae lowered her voice and pulled her fur cloak tightly around her shoulders. "The Grand Maester is offering me a trip that will take me away from Aeslyn's clutches. The Targaryen ties in Braavos are surely still strong. If I can leave the Grand Maester behind once we arrive I can begin to build my own life away from my sister. Why not take my house to Braavos as Daenerys did?"

_And why not travel beyond Braavos and see the wonders of this vast world?_ Danae thought to herself. _Why not travel the Free Cities and rally troops to my cause? The blood of Aegon the Conqueror runs in my blood, and I would surely be a better ruler than the King of Feasts. I only require time to learn and grow._

"Aye," James replied. "Perhaps it would be good to travel to Braavos again. Perhaps my old master requires a hand." He shrugged and they returned to the busy crowds of the tournament.

The warm and sweet smell of cinnamon drifted through the air as they passed a young serving girl selling baked apples throughout the tournament tents. The snow had long since finished falling and small rays of sunlight peeked through puffy white clouds in the sky. Sigils flew around the jousting arena in all colors of the rainbow and Danae and James took their places standing against the railing to watch the tournament. A man with short black hair, blue eyes and a handsome, clean-shaven face paraded his horse around the arena in victory after the last match. His shield bore a sigil of three green leaves on a field of gold and Danae recognized the sigil of House Oakheart.

Before the next joust began two bards and a dancing fool dressed in a checkered suit of gold and black took the field. The crowds of smallfolk and nobles erupted in applause and jest as the names of various songs were requested from the masses.

The bards erupted into a bawdy and jolly rendition of _The Dornishman's Wife_ while the fool began to juggle tomatoes. He took quick breaks from his juggling to cartwheel around the arena. As the song finished and _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ began the fool stopped mid cartwheel when he passed the fence where Danae stood. He walked over to her on his hands and flipped upright into a standing position a few feet from the young Targaryen. The fool's hair was an unnatural purple and his eyes looked dark and clouded with madness. He made a showing of emptying his pockets in front of Danae in search of some unknown trinket.

"Ah, here stands one of the last dragons," his voice was silky and high-pitched and layered with an accent from the Free Cities that Danae did not recognize. She began to feel the gaze of the people all around as he finally pulled a coin from his pocket and took a step closer. He flipped the silver coin back and forth to demonstrate it was from Volantis and showed a crown on one face and the face of death on the other.

"Everyone hold your breath now, and let us see how this coin will land." The fool tossed the coin into the air as the crowd gathered closely around Danae. It sunk into the ground in a pile of snow and the fool shielded the coin from view as he kneeled to pick it up. He held the coin tightly in closed hands and brought his fist to his face to take a small peek. His face distorted into a disturbing smile and Danae noticed several browned teeth and empty gaps. He stepped within an arm's length of Danae and reached for her hand. James pulled his sword and stepped in front of Danae.

"Tsk tsk now, waterdancer. I mean your beautiful lady no harm."

He placed the coin flat into Danae's palm in the way it had landed. She gazed down to see a crown looking up at her and unfamiliar words written around the coin in the bastard Valyrian tongue of Volantis.

The fool leaned in close to Danae and whispered strange accented words that only she could hear.

"It has been too long since the world has seen a true dragon."

With those words he vaulted into a backflip and landed several feet away. The fool hurriedly kneeled in the snow surrounding the fence and rolled a quick snowball in his hand. He flung the snowball at James' face and cartwheeled away while laughing madly.

An hour and several jousting matches later Danae stood at the fence deep in thought as she flipped the silver coin around in her fingers. She and James had spoken little since the fool's showing, and she wrestled with ideas in her head as she half-heartedly watched the tournament.

_I could rule over all these people one day, houses big and small. Knights and nobles and smallfolk…It is in my blood to govern them. But how can I persuade these men to support my cause? Do I use fire and blood to persuade them as Aegon did? If I travel beyond Braavos will I even survive the Doom?_

She frowned as she watched a man from House Connington ride into the arena, his hair flaming red like a bright sun. Danae turned as she heard a soft cough behind her.

Her sister Aeslyn stood with a smug look on her fair face. Danae stared into the visage so similar to her own, yet when she searched her sister's eyes she saw no emotion she could recognize within herself.

"Yes, Aeslyn?" Danae finally offered as her sister stood in silence and stared at her.

"I hear that the Grand Maester has spoken with you about Valyria." She leaned in close to Danae's face and smiled. "I can ship you off to the far reaches of Asshai if I want to. When Father died you became mine to control."

Aeslyn turned her head to the side to see James Rivers watching her closely.

"Leave us now, bastard. You can follow my sister around like a lost puppy when I am finished with her."

James looked as if he wanted to speak, but instead he turned to walk further down the fence away from the two Targaryen girls. Aeslyn turned her gaze back toward Danae.

"I can wed you to that bastard waterdancer if I want and you can both live in poverty…if you return from the Doom that is," she laughed darkly as she reached over and twirled her pale fingers through Danae's hair.

"The Grand Maester said you looked to travel to Valyria with us," Danae spoke with little emotion on her face as usual. Years of living with Aeslyn had conditioned her to remain as impassive as possible when her sister made threats.

"Oh? Yes, I suppose I've led him to believe such a thing. Though I actually plan to wed soon and remain here." She looked out over the fence to where the men were preparing for their next joust.

"You see that man in Lannister armor? The one with the golden curls and eyes as bright as emeralds? That is Damon Lannister, and I plan to make him my husband shortly after this tournament."

Danae looked curiously to where her sister pointed and her father's words rang in her ears. Words that he had told her long ago at a tournament similar to the one they stood at now.

"A dragon does not concern herself with the opinion of lions," she repeated the words back to her sister.

Aeslyn laughed. "Dragon? I see no dragon here. Tell me sister, where are the dragon banners? Where are the dragon knights? Where are the men and women chanting for our house?" She stepped closer and began to twist the skin on Danae's arm. "The days of fire and blood are over, dear sister. Hear me roar."

Danae pulled her arm away and continued to watch the men joust.

"I see you covet my position every day, Danae. Father always loved you more. If he were not a moral man he would have sold me to a Lyscene brothel and given you everything in the world that was his to give. You think yourself a clever little thing, don't you? But I am the head of House Targaryen, and I see the jealousy in your eyes. Now that Father is dead, you can be jealous of me for once. You would scheme my birthright from under me, but not if I send you to Valyria with a mad maester first…" She laughed coldly. "If by some rare chance you return, I will be married to the future Lord of House Lannister and the Warden of the West. My husband would not hesitate to put his mighty sword through your heart as it pleases me."

Once again Father's words rang in Danae's ears as if he stood next to her.

_She will make your life miserable if you do not learn to stand up for yourself._

As Damon Lannister was unhorsed by Emmon Baelish, Danae turned from the railing to face her sister directly.

"And when I return from Valyria riding atop my dragon I will not hesitate to burn you first…as it pleases me."

A loud slap was heard throughout the stands as Aeslyn hit her sister across the face. Eyes all around them turned to watch as the sisters faced each other. Aeslyn's look of rage was met with Danae's calm determination until Aeslyn broke the gaze between them and stormed off in a fury.

Danae looked around her to see the stares of the people of Westeros.

_Well, as for getting them to support my cause that was probably not a good way to begin._

**- MELLARA -**

The waves of Blackwater Bay crashed against the rocky beaches outside the Westerosi capital, eating away at the craggy landscape just outside the city's fortifications.

The inns, homes, and winesinks within the high stone walls were built crookedly with stories stacked haphazardly one on top of the other, jutting out in any which direction. In many places, the walls of separate establishments came close to touching as they climbed towards the skies and it was possible to step from the balcony of one house onto that of another.

The people of the populous port city were crooked, too. Pick-pockets, petty thieves, slimy merchants, and drunks all called the capital home. They walked with crooked gaits down the crooked alleyways and some even had crooked teeth through which they lied with the same ease as an ironborn sailed. From Flea Bottom to Fishmonger's Square, smallfolk scurried chaotically about their business and their lives, unaware and for the most part uncaring about the politics of high lords.

But in the great red castle atop Aegon's Hill, life was much more orderly.

Smell aside, Mellara was happy to be back in the capital. She enjoyed the benefits of her family's close friendship with the King and all it afforded them, including baskets full of freshly baked sweet rolls and free roam of the castle. There were plenty of interesting conversations for her to accidentally overhear in the Red Keep - much more tantalizing than anything she heard at Highgarden.

"Gawen Waters is in love with Missy," Mellara was saying to her older sister. Her voice was muffled by her skirts. "I heard Lum talking about it in the kitchens this morning. Theo is livid about it, but there's nothing he can do really since they work different shifts." The youngest Tyrell was practicing her handstands, and the heavy folds of her gown fell about her head as she tried to balance herself.

Maude looked up from her stitches and rolled her eyes with a smile. "Is that your latest bit of gossip, little one?" she asked teasingly. "The romances and affairs of baseborn servants?"

"It's rude to call them baseborn," Mellara replied before losing her balance and dropping to the floor with a thud. Her face was red from hanging upside down and she gathered her tangled hair back and twisted it in a knot to keep it out of her face.

Maude looked at her little sister with dismay. "Mellara, it took me ages to brush your hair this morning. Why do you thwart my efforts to make you into a proper lady?"

Mellara ignored the question. "I have gossip about highborn people, too," she declared, climbing to her feet and walking over to the bed where her own needlework sat abandoned. She flopped down onto the feather mattress and picked up the embroidery carelessly, sending a spool of thread tumbling off the bed and rolling into a corner, leaving a trail of moss green string behind it.

"James Arryn's little brother has a bastard."

The stitches she had already made were sloppy and knotted, and didn't resemble the rose they were meant to.

"The Vale lord's brother?" Maude didn't look up from her work. Her own yellow rose was flawless.

"Uh huh. And the King is going to name a new Hand soon. The old one's been dead for months now but Harys has been dragging his feet about picking a new one." Mellara picked at her crooked stitches, trying to untangle some of the worse looking ones. "Everyone thinks he should choose Lord Loren, since he's a Lannister after all, and everyone knows they've got gobs of money and soldiers, but Harys doesn't like Loren ever since he married that Greyjoy woman. He only liked his brother."

Maude shot a disapproving glare at her sister. "Where do you hear these things, little bird? Are you sneaking about in places you don't belong?"

Mellara's face reddened guiltily but she shrugged and then rolled onto her back, holding the needlework up above her head for a better look.

_It's a mess, _she thought, pursing her lips. _It looks more like House Rowan's tree than it does a flower._

"Other people say it should be our father," Mellara went on. "But if you marry the King then Harys won't need solidify any ties to the Reach. It is better to give gifts to those who might be your enemies rather than those who are already your friends."

Maude set down her embroidery and stared at the youngest Tyrell. "Those don't sound like your own words, Mellara. Who are you eavesdropping on?"

A knock interrupted them before Mellara could invent a lie, and Maude stood and left the bedchambers to see who was calling, taking her perfectly stitched rose with her. Mellara was grateful for the timing. If she knew the places her sister sneaked about in, Maude would go straight to their lord father and see to it that Mellara never left her room again.

"King's Landing is a dangerous place," Maude had warned her on their arrival. "This is not Highgarden. Be mindful of where you stick your nose while here, or someone will catch you and cut it off."

Mellara rolled back onto her stomach and sighed, blowing the loose strands of her hair out of her face. Their older brother Troy had given her much the same warning, likely because Maude told him to.

_At least Benjen never scolds me,_ she thought. Benjen was the third son of Lord Baelor, or second if one chose not to count Olyvar, who had forsaken his name and titles to become a maester. Their father never liked to count Olyvar.

The green spool of thread say forgotten in the corner of the room as Mellara wove gold stitches through her fabric with the gracefulness of a Mormont woman dancing at her wedding feast. She thought of her brothers and wondered if they were enjoying the capital as much as she and Maude were.

Doubtless Troy was excited to be in the presence of so many knights, and especially those of the Kingsguard. He was recently knighted himself and Mellara was glad that he now had other people to wax to about chivalry and the Seven. Every time he went off about honor and protecting women and rescuing damsels she wanted to gag.

Distracted by her thoughts, Mellara yelped when she accidentally pricked her finger.

"Stupid flower!" she muttered. She tossed the needlework aside and sucked at the blood that beaded on her thumb. "Maude?" she called, realizing that her sister had been gone for some time now.

She climbed off of the bed and wandered into the main chambers of the apartment she had been sharing with her sister since their return to King's Landing.

"Maude?" she called again, glancing about the empty room curiously. Her eyes landed on the door to the hall, which was left oddly ajar.

She approached it carefully and then stood in the threshold, glancing left and then right down the quiet corridor but seeing no trace of her sister. Finally, she looked down and noticed something out of place on the stone floors of the castle… Maude's needlework, half completed in perfectly straight stitches, the words at the bottom reading


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The Second Son Sails – 2

The Wolf and the Lion – 4

A Rose in Oldtown – 9

As High as Honor – 13

Calling the Banners – 15

A Secret at Sharp Point – 19

Promises at Bloodstone – 23

The Lady Dragon – 29

Confronting a King –32

Chapter Two

A Journey North –

A Journey North – 36

The Black Wedding – 38

A Brother Scorned – 41

A Fallen Star – 44

A Crow without Wings – 50

Arrival at the Rock – 51

The Griffin Stirs – 54

The Dragon's Proposal – 57

Swords and Spears – 60

The Gold Wedding – 64

Dawn Lost – 70

Watchers on the Wall – 72

A Father's Orders – 75

A Dragon Takes Flight – 78

Escort to King's Landing – 83

Forgiveness – 86

Night on Blackwater Bay – 88

**- THE SHIP CAPTAIN -**

The tavern was a dark place, smelling of earth and smoke.

Along the far wall, the captain of the _Lion's Roar _sat pressed between a table of boisterous Dornish sailors and the crew of a carrack out of Essos. They spoke in the thick tongue of their homeland and the words washed over Abelar's untrained ears like an ocean breeze.

There were better alehouses in Lannisport for certain, Abelar could name them all, but when a man was looking for talk there was no better place than the _Serpent's Head_.

_A den of thieves and cutthroats_, Abelar knew, but cutthroat's had loose tongues, and even thieves emptied their pockets somewhere.

And Abelar had a tale to tell.

The man who sat opposite him wore a wide floppy hat of straw which covered his face. Bronzed skin peeked out from beneath the leather and sealskin tunic of a clammer, but this man did not deal in clams, Abelar knew. This man dealt in secrets.

"A boy," the man said, his low voice creeping out from beneath the brim of his hat. "An oddity certainly."

"More than an oddity, a message." Abelar smiled, his teeth red from the sourleaf he chewed. "I've never known Lord Loren Lannister to accommodate the requests of a boy, nor a foreign boy at that. He was expecting him."

"For what," the man said.

Abelar spread his arms wide, and grinned his bloody grin. "Not a clue."

Quietly, the mummer pushed a gold coin across the table which Abelar promptly flipped in the air and bit before pocketing. "Bloodstone," he said. "The _Lion's Roar_ leaves tomorrow with the lord himself and his lovely daughter."

"Not news in itself," the man in the hat replied. "Lords are known to travel from time to time."

"Aye," Abelar conceded, "But you've never known Loren Lannister. Cold as stone he is, and harder than Casterly Rock itself. He's not a man known for taking leisure." Abelar glanced from side to side before leaning forward. "Lannister soldiers have been amassing throughout Lannisport. You can't walk a foot without bumping into a man in the old red and gold."

A flash of interest crossed the man's eyes and Abelar grinned, red teeth and red gums.

"Leisure is for peacetime, and I do not think Lord Loren is preparing for peace."

**- JOJEN -**

When Jojen awoke it was just outside a tavern in one of the sleepier quarters of Lord Harroway's Town, rain battering down against his face and a boot kicking his side.

"No, Edmure, just another hour…" he mumbled.

His head felt like an axe had sliced it open. Images of the night before swam in his mind's eye. He remembered a brawl with a smug Lannister and far too much wine, but not much else.

"I'm not your damned brother," he heard as another kick landed on his ribs.

Jojen opened his eyes and blinked confusedly at his surroundings before looking up to see the hazy figure of a knight towering above him.

The memories came back to him slowly.

Nearly a day earlier, Jojen had been locked in a bitter argument outside of Harrenhal with Thaddius Lannister, after the melee event. Jojen had insisted that Thaddius had been fighting dirty with his blunted tourney sword, striking at the young wolf's fingers. He pointed out that Thaddius at one point grabbed a small young squire and used him as a human shield when his own was lost, which the Stark claimed to be dishonorable and cruel.

Thaddius, who had been fostered on Pyke with his Greyjoy kin for much of his childhood, had seen nothing wrong with his less than knightly tactics. It was said that the Iron Islands bred cruel men, and had Jojen wondered aloud at how much of a Lion Thaddius truly was, with his mother's Kraken blood running through his veins.

They had come to blows at that remark, and with Jojen's brother Edmure still sleeping off his drunken stupor and Thaddius' brother Damon already on his way back to Casterly Rock, there had been no one to separate the two of them. Therefore, they brawled until they hadn't had any strength or breath left to fight, and collapsed panting in the dirt with foolish smiles on their faces, having earned a certain satisfaction in beating each other bloody that the tourney had not provided.

That was when they'd had their second argument: who owed whom a drink. The matter had been easily settled with a truce, and they had made their way to Lord Harroway's Town promptly, slipping some of the remaining bottles of Dornish red from a dozing Lord Edmure's tent and drinking them along the road as they went, laughing and telling tales, each taller than the last.

Thaddius had spoken of the wights he had killed at the Rainwood, and Jojen spoke of his bedroom conquests. The more they drank, the more freely their tongues had wagged until Thaddius had revealed that Aeslyn Targaryen had given him her favor and that he was therefore now indubitably, immeasurably, and irrecoverably head over heels in love with her. He'd further admitted, after several prying questions from Jojen and long gulps of liquid courage, that he had never before laid with a woman, so terrified was he of breaking his vows to the Kingsguard or disappointing his father.

At that, Jojen had swore that he would make it his life's goal to see Thaddius bedded, "tonight!" of course, and with the most beautiful woman in all of the Riverlands, "assuming that she is in one of these taverns, here." With that promise at the forefront of his mind, he had led the young Lannister into the nearest winesink.

What happened after that was less clear, Jojen was realizing as he awoke wet and groggy on the muddy ground outside an unfamiliar looking tavern.

"Oh, it's you, Lannister," he said, looking up at the golden haired knight. "Where is your shirt?"

"There's no need to yell, Jojen," The Lannister replied through gritted teeth.

_He must be feeling just as sore as I am, _Jojen thought as he saw the man press a hand to his temple.

"I was hoping you might know." Thaddius continued, "Perhaps it's in the same place as yours."

"I'm not yelling," Jojen protested, pushing himself into a sitting position lazily. It was still raining steadily, but he was already soaked to the bone and saw no point in rushing. "You're the one who's roaring, Lion. What were we drinking last night, strongwine? Is this some mischief of yours, Lannister? Did you do something to my drinks?"

"Me? Quit your howling, wolf cunt," Thaddius seemed as though he was about to string on a few more insults, but instead he hunched over and turned to the side to vomit.

"Ugh, disgusting," Jojen looked away, making a face. "What happened, Lannister? My mind is still foggy. Did I swing at you with a sword last night?"

"I don't remember, wolf," Thaddius replied, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't remember a thing…" he paused suddenly and looked around. "Where in the seven hells are we and why is there so much mess everywhere? And why are the people looking at us like that?"

A few passerby were eying the two strangers warily, whispering and pointing.

"I have no idea where we are," Jojen shook his head, still seated on the ground, unconcerned about the puddle of rainwater and dirt he was seated in. "But I see a tavern there, and the only cure for too much drink is more drink."

Thaddius shuddered at the suggestion, but reached down and offered Jojen his hand. When he went to help him to his feet he lost his footing, stumbling and falling directly on top of the Stark. There was an uncomfortable moment as Jojen found their faces closer together than he'd expected they'd ever be, and they each mumbled some excuses and insults to ease the tension. It took a few more attempts before they were both on their feet, but they eventually headed into the tavern, only to find the place completely ransacked and deserted.

"I wonder where everyone has gone," Thaddius remarked, scratching his head. "It looks like someone came through and trashed the place."

"Ah, it does, doesn't it?" Jojen agreed with a frown, as some foggy memories began to surface: memories of a tavern much like this, broken glass, an argument, and a brawl. "Well, I suppose that means that these drinks are on the house."

He strode over to the bar and reached behind the counter, removing two rusted tankards and setting them on a table. Thaddius found a pair of chairs that survived whatever storm swept through the winesink, and dragged them over for each of them.

Jojen pushed one of the tankards across the table to Thaddius and then leaned back in his seat to stretch. His shirtless body was soaking wet and the muscles in his chest glistened though streaked with mud.

"Is it hot in here?" Thaddius asked, rubbing at the back of his neck."I'm not sure what happened last night," he added hurriedly, "We were at the tourney, and there was the melee, and you accused me of cheating, and we fought, and then we came here and we drank and then… Well, then I woke up outside, half disrobed and with you."

Jojen shifted awkwardly in his chair beneath Thaddius' gaze. _Why is he just staring at me? What is he looking at?_ He felt his face flush and he reached for his drink, eager for something with which to occupy himself.

"Right, Lannister, well, I believe we were looking for a maiden for you," he said. "I remember arguing, and then you hit me in the face, and then we were buying each other drinks."

He set down his mug and reached for the spot under his shoulder where Ulrich's lance had struck him in the joust. The wound still ached, and now it was caked in mud, dirt, and dried blood. "I have no idea where our shirts went."

"Is it bothering you?" Thaddius asked.

"Is what? Your staring?"

"Your wound."

"Oh, right. Of course," Jojen reddened. "Ah, no, it's fine. It's nothing, really. I've had far worse."

He felt naked beneath the Lannister's gaze. Thaddius' had his father's eyes, as green as emeralds but as sharp as steel. _Beautiful, really,_ Jojen thought, then,_ Did I really just think that?_

"I remember sitting in this tavern," Thaddius said slowly, a smile growing on his face. "You were telling me about how you admired my bladework, and that you could see why people call me the Warrior reincarnate, the most handsome man in Westeros, with a body chiseled out the Rock of Casterly Rock itself and hair spun like gold and-"

Jojen burst out laughing at the jape, knocking over his mug in the process. His ale spilled and ran across the table, straight onto his companion's lap. Thaddius jumped and Jojen quickly scrambled to find a rag.

"I'm so sorry, Thad, I just- I feel so stupid, that was an accident..."

His search was fruitless, and he stood and hopelessly looked about the messy tavern before leaning down and tearing a piece of cloth from his trousers with which to wipe up the mess.

"I apologize, I wasn't paying attention," he moved to Thaddius' side quickly and without thinking began dabbing and wiping at the spilled ale on his lap.

"Jojen, what are you doing?" Thaddius asked with a confused frown, grabbing the Stark by the wrist.

Jojen seemed to realize all at once exactly what he was doing, and his face turned nearly as red as his hair. "I, uh, I was, uh, I just-"

"You called me Thad," the knight grinned, still clutching a frozen and rather humiliated Jojen by the arm. "My brother is the only one who ever calls me that. Everyone else says Ser Lannister, or Ser Thaddius, and you always just say Lannister or Lion."

"I, um… I suppose I do. I mean I suppose I did. I do. I guess."

_Gods, what is wrong with you, Jojen?!_

"Well, you always call me Stark, or wolf, or 'wolf cunt,' so there's that," Jojen pointed out, giving an awkward sort of half-laugh. "Did I surprise you, Ser Thaddius? We wolf cunts can be rather unpredictable."

"Unpredictable, you say?" Thaddius did not release his wrist, but there was a glint of playfulness in his emerald eyes.

_Such beautiful eyes…_

"Yes, unpredictable. I always strike when my prey is at unawares."

"Are you planning on striking me, Jojen?"

The knight's brilliant green eyes seemed to grow bigger, and that was when Jojen realized that their faces had been moving closer and closer together.

"Might be that I am, Thad."

All at once, Jojen's lips were on his, and Thaddius' hands were tangled in the wet and unruly auburn hair of a Stark. And in the empty and ransacked tavern that the two had destroyed the night before, though they did not remember, the Wolf and the Lion found themselves spending a day they would never forget.

**- THE TOWER'S SERVANT -**

It was late at night when a large, shrouded supply cart rumbled through the main gates of Oldtown. The cart was flanked by guards cloaked in gray. The few townspeople who saw it enter paid it no mind. The only thing curious about its arrival was the time of night. Usually supply runs took place during the day, but with the growing tension between the Hightowers and Tyrells, the people had become accustomed to Lord Gylen's peculiar decisions.

Suspicion would have been most appropriate in this case, however. The cart jolted and traveled down the cobblestone streets of Oldtown, all the way to the Hightower. Once it approached the gates, every precaution was taken before opening the carriage and removing its cargo - a large crate made of wood.

The guards attached the crate to a hoist in the center of the tower, for the purpose of moving equipment, supplies, and other heavy items from floor to floor. This shipment went nearly all the way to the top, stopping only before the floor where the massive pyre lighting the top of the Hightower was held.

The crate was finally brought to a room - a lavish one, with a nice bed, a wardrobe, and a view of Oldtown though thick, iron bars. On a table sat a single yellow rose in a glass jar, already wilting. The crate was carefully opened, and the unconscious body of Maude Tyrell was lifted and rested on the bed by guards who vanished as quickly as they had appeared.

When she opened her eyes, it was sunlight that streamed through the windows instead of the moon's glow. Maude sat up carefully, blinking confusedly at the unfamiliar room it was illuminating, and that's when Nalla figured she had best say hello.

"M'lady," the servant girl managed an awed whisper. She was ten and one, and this was the first time she'd ever seen a member of the Tyrell house so close. Nalla was a stout girl, with dull brown hair that her mother pulled back tightly in a knot behind her head each morning, and big doe eyes that had a habit of making her always appear frightened. Her body was square and ungainly and her calves were thick from a childhood spent hauling water up and down the stairs of the Hightower.

The captive's journey had left her bedraggled. Her once perfectly pressed gown of pale blue silk was wrinkled, and some of the fine gold stitching on its hem had come undone. The pile of twisted braids atop her head was now a tangled mess, but Nalla looked at Maude as if she were beholding a goddess.

"Who are you?" Maude's voice was surprisingly sharp for a woman with such soft features, and it cut into Nalla like cold steel. _"Where am I!?"_

"Old… Oldtown, m'lady," Nalla said, taken aback by the harshness of the lady's tone, her own voice quivering. "This is the Hightower."

"Oldtown?" Maude repeated, scrunching up her pretty face in confusion and disgust, "And why am I in Oldtown? Who has brought me here? What is the meaning of this?"

"I...I…"

_I am supposed to empty your chamberpot, I have no idea why in the seven hells you are here…_

"Speak, girl! Are you simple?"

"No, m'lady. I just… I don't know how to answer your questions, is all," Nalla glanced back and forth between the floor and the lady, her face flushed.

Maude looked around the room slowly, her golden brown eyes scanning over the polished furniture, the delicate tapestries, the iron bars on the windows and the single wilting rose in a vase on a stained oak table.

She rose from the bed slowly, running her palms over the wrinkled folds of her skirts. Nalla clutched the wine pitcher in her hands tightly, unsure of what she should do or say. She hadn't spent much time around noble women. Though she had been in the service of Lord Gylen Hightower since she was but seven, she had always tended to the kitchens, or to prisoners. She had never seen a highborn prisoner in the Hightower before, and the rare women who found themselves behind bars in the castle were certainly of no noble stock.

Maude took small steps to reach the table, and Nalla noted how she held her back straight and rigid with her shoulders drawn back and her head held high. She reached out and touched the rose in the vase gently, and a dried yellow petal fell softly onto the table.

_She looks just like a queen… _

"What are you looking at?" Maude asked, turning her sharp gaze back to Nalla.

_Stop staring at her._

She quickly glanced at the ground.

"M'lady, if there's anything that you need while you are in Hightower, you need only ask and I shall-"

"While I am at Hightower?" Maude repeated, tilting her head and eying the child with confused disdain. "Am I on holiday here, is that it? Spare me your pleasantries, girl, I am a prisoner here and we both know it." She waved a hand at the barred windows, never once looking away from Nalla. "You may bring me food and drink while I await my father and my brothers to come to my rescue, but I will not abide the company of some lowborn serving girl. Do you know who I am?"

Nalla heard a soft sloshing sound and realized that her hands were shaking a bit and the wine in the carafe was splashing. She stared down into the pitcher as she spoke, for it was easier than looking at the woman in the room with her angry glare. The wine was pink like the lady's cheeks, a rosy blush, and swished about the glass due to the unsteadiness of her hands.

"You are Lady Maude Tyrell," she answered, surprised at how even her voice sounded.

She had not expected the beautiful woman to speak so shortly. Nalla always imagined highborn women as gentle and kind, but while Maude was no doubt as nobly born as they came, the contempt she held in her eyes as she looked down her perfectly straight nose at the servant girl was obvious.

"That's right, child," Maude answered. "I am a lady of Highgarden, to whom your master's House swears fealty."

"I'm a servant, not a slave," Nalla replied sharply. "I don't have a _master_."

It was hard to say who was more startled by the remark, Maude or Nalla herself, but the serving girl's eyes grew even wider in her head and her mouth snapped shut.

"Clearly you don't realize who it is you address, child," Maude said icily. "Not only am I a lady of House Tyrell… I am the future Queen of Westeros."

A smile played at her lips, and she arched her eyebrow slightly. "The King intends to ask me for my hand in marriage. It won't be just my brothers and my father who march on your lord's walls to rescue me from this tower. It will be the gallant King Harys Baratheon himself who comes riding on his white destrier with a crown of gold atop his head, garbed in his shining steel armor and wielding his greatsword.

"He will put this castle and all of Oldtown to the torch once I am seated on his horse in front of him, and it won't matter if you're a servant or a slave then, you will die like the rest of the Hightower scum."

She gave a haughty "hmpth," satisfied with her scolding, and crossed the room to look out the window, as if King Harys might be riding up to the gates of the city that very instant.

"Fetch me a bath, girl," she called over her shoulder. "I will want to look beautiful for when my King arrives."

Nalla gazed at the woman framed in the barred window, standing tall and proud despite her matted hair and disheveled clothing.

_Just like a queen._

"My mother always said that a woman's real beauty is in how she treats others," the servant girl said.

With that, she set the pitcher down on the table near the threshold and walked briskly from the room, pulling the heavy iron door shut behind her.

**- THE MASTER -**

Everyone had their object, the apple of their eye, the love of their life. Most had common ones, a family heirloom, a reminder of a lover long gone, even a piece of clothing touched by royalty. The object would be just short of worshiped, turning seven gods into eight until some tragedy inevitably ruined the treasured item.

Rymar Royce wasn't like most people, as the realm was far more ambitious an object than the common person would dare hold so close. He tended to it like an obsessed, heart broken young knight polishing both of his swords, making sure every detail of it was perfect. He cared for the realm, watched over it and kept it set in order. When he had to, he would scrape the tarnish off of it, for the good of the rest, no matter their position.

The Master of Whisperers was no stranger to Mockingbirds. They fluttered into his room often, spoke their words, and left again for Harrenhal. They would leave letters, and Rymar in turn would give them gifts of rare poisons, the tiniest gleam of information on a larger map, and shoves needed to push the realm towards his goal.

Emmon Baelish was, of course, quite mad. Delusions of grandeur and nostalgia for a time long passed had placed him into the shoes of the last truly great Baelish, and he delighted in playing the same games as his ancestor but with notably less finesse. The Mockingbirds had grown into a powerful house, a relic of the time of turmoil and chaos that had given them power. A ridiculously unjumped house, their neighbors to the east, the Arryns, were perhaps as far as one could get to being an exact opposite, and were already disapproving of the Mockingbird.

So of course James Arryn had to be killed by Emmon Baelish.

It hadn't been that blatant of course. A nudge there, a push there, paint it cleverly and tell the Mockingbird it was his own idea and he would snatch it up no matter the repercussions. A little hint of intrigue, the vague promise of additional power, and obtuse allusions to his ancestor had been more than enough to send the man scrambling to find the proper poison. Rymar had made sure to make it a gift, and then he sat back and watched as a tourney grew around Harrenhal.

The mockingbird had sent a letter in the middle of the tournament, one that the Master of Whisperers devoured eagerly. It was short and dramatic, exactly Emmon's style.

"Lord Royce," it began in flowering handwriting that would've been enough for an entire letter in normal script, "It is done. Our falcon friend's feathers have been plucked."

Rymar leaned back in his chair, read over the letter, and tossed it into the fire. Now the game would truly begin.

**- THADDIUS -**

"It was those scheming Hightowers, Your Grace," Lord Baelor sputtered in rageful tones. "They took her! I know they did! My daughter Mellara heard him whispering to the Dornish Prince at your court. That Gylen has been lusting after my seat for decades, who else would seek such harm against my house and my child?!"

Ser Thaddius Lannister watched as Baelor Tyrell stood staring up at his king on the Iron Throne with a mad fury in his eyes. The knight tried to keep a stone face, as was expected of any member of the Kingsguard, but inwardly he felt disinterested, and a little sleepy, too.

Maude Tyrell had disappeared from the Red Keep and the days that ensued had been chaos as fingers were pointed at nearly every house in the realm, big and small. Rumors abounded about the King's intention to marry the Tyrell girl, and so any number of enemies to the throne could have found cause to abscond with her. But Harys only ever listened to the counsel of a few men, and those men all saw only one culprit.

The consensus seemed to be that Hightower was behind the abduction, as they were the most powerful of all the Reach houses and Lord Baelor and Lord Gylen had a personal feud that went back decades - too long for someone as apathetic as Thaddius to even remember what the root of it was.

It had been the most eventful week at the Red Keep that Thaddius had ever experienced, and yet still he was bored. Serving in the Kingsguard was the highest honor that a knight could hope to attain, and being accepted into the elite group of warriors at such a young age was more impressive still, but the second Lannister son found little love for his duty, or rather as he saw it, his life sentence.

_I should never have let Damon talk me into this_, he thought to himself for at least the hundredth time that month. "Join the Kingsguard," his brother had said. "Let them teach you a thing or two about restraint and honor," he had said.

_As if Damon knows a damned thing about honor…_

Thaddius shifted his weight from one stiff foot to the other and gave a small sigh, earning a reproachful glare from Ser Jaime Florent, the Lord Commander.

"He probably took her back to Oldtown!" Lord Baelor declared, spittle flying from his mouth as he raged on, oblivious to the disinterested Kingsguard in his midst.

_And why would he notice me?_ Thaddius thought. _I am just a wall, as much a part of the scenery as the columns in the throne room or the tapestries in the great hall. _

King Harys, like all Baratheons, had never been famous for his wit; his strength with a blade was what earned him his renown. He was quick to violence, and his response to Lord Baelor showed it.

"You must be right…" the Stag said at last, his knuckles white as he gripped the arms of the Iron Throne angrily. "Oldtown will feel our wrath… We march on the morrow. I want three thousand men from the Crownlands, and see who my brother can send from Dragonstone."

That caught Thaddius' attention.

_Finally, a chance to kill something_, he thought eagerly.

It felt like ages since the Rainwood, and Thaddius' sword arm itched for combat. He didn't feel alive unless he were fighting, as he tried to explain countless times to his older brother whenever Damon lectured him for being "overzealous" with the prisoners at Casterly Rock or "heavy-handed" in dealing with bandits in the woods north of Crakehall.

"Nothing gets my blood flowing like sending that of others spilling," he had told the Rock's heir with a grin, but Damon never seemed to understand him and always gave that same look of quiet apprehension and thinly veiled disapproval in reply.

_He's just jealous_, Thaddius knew, _Because father loves me best._

The oldest Lannister had always been his mother's son, Eddrick Lannet liked to recall. He'd been her shadow until she died on the birthing bed when Ashara was born. Thaddius, however, could do no wrong in Loren Lannister's eyes. Yet his brother's rarer praise meant more to the young kingsguard than he liked to acknowledge, and so that was why the white cloak hung about his shoulders now as he stood in the Red Keep listening to the King plot to steal back his kidnapped Rose.

"Your Grace…" Lord Rymar Royce, Master of Whispers, interrupted Harys gently. "Is it wise to march on Oldtown with so few men? Lord Hightower commands many times that number, and is not a lord to be taken lightly when it comes to prowess in battle." The bald man spoke gently, but his face was wrought with concern. The runes tattooed on his arms were visible with the sleeves of his robes rolled up.

Ser Jaime Florent narrowed his eyes at the council member. "We have no proof of any conspiracy surrounding the disappearance of the Lady Maude, and certainly nothing that points to Lord Gylen Hightower. His is one of the wealthiest houses in the realm; it would not be wise to sour relations so brashly."

Thaddius tried not to roll his eyes. Ser Florent might be the dullest thing in all of King's Landing. They called him the "Fox" but Thaddius saw nothing cunning about a man who spent most of his days following the King around and standing in the corner while he feasted.

_It's easier to move a mountain to action than Jaime Florent,_ he thought with disdain. _If the man were on fire he would call a council to discuss it before fetching any water._

King Harys glared down at the spymaster, "You have heard no whispers, Lord Rymar?" he asked accusingly, "Perhaps you are not fit for your station, then."

Lord Rymar's mouth tightened, but he bowed his head apologetically and said in honeyed tones, "Your Grace, I serve the realm with all my heart, yet I am but a man, as capable as erring as any other. I have heard no truths surrounding the disappearance of Lady Maude, only rumors. As such, I cannot offer you facts, only my counsel."

King Harys continued to scowl at the Master of Whisperers. Lord Rymar had always offered good advice in the past. He encouraged the King's lavish spending, gave his blessing for the winter time feasts and tournaments that Harys liked to hold, and let the King know that his lord paramounts were ever loyal despite any courtroom gossip. In fact, Lord Rymar Royce was one of the few people who defended Harys' recent decision to appoint Alester Targaryen as Hand of the King.

The move had come to a surprise to everyone, Thaddius not least of all. As a child, Alester was kept as a ward by King Renly Baratheon at King's Landing in order to keep the Targaryen House in line. While there, Alester and Renly's son Harys became fast friends, forming a bond that lasted into Harys' own reign.

_A typical Dragon,_ Thaddius thought. _As haughty as they come._

He hadn't interacted much with Targaryen ward, but disliked the man's smug smile and his arrogant demeanor all the same. Alester strode about the castle with an air of grandiose, as if it were his own keep and not his prison.

The decision to appoint him as Hand was shocking to the various high lords, many of whom had approached Harys directly to champion their own name. They were insulted by the King's choice, and the mood in the capital had been tense ever since the announcement.

_You invite your friends to your feasts, you don't sit them on your small council,_ Thaddius' father would have said. Loren Lannister's own council at Casterly Rock was composed of men from all over the Westerlands, as opposed to Harys Baratheon's assorted collection of family members and drinking chums.

The entertaining council meetings were one of the the aspects of life at Casterly Rock that Thaddius missed most, though perhaps his brother's relationship with their father wouldn't be so rocky if Damon didn't spend half the meetings making japes and trying to raise Loren's ire. The Warden of the West was notoriously poised, and was never one to break a gaze. The heir only seemed to see that as a challenge, and more than once he was ordered to leave a counsel session midway through, for making Thaddius laugh or abusing the wine pitcher.

Thaddius could still recall with ease the time that the highborn envoy from House Crakehall came to bear testimony for a dispute between Lords Willum Prester and Polliver Lydden. Damon had made some remark about the man's daughter which, while earning a few stifled laughs from others in attendance, caused the man to erupt into a string of curses and a rant about how the Lannister heir was bound to instate a House of Debauchery in place of his proud family's name.

Damon retorted with some sort of jab at the man's sigil, telling him not to take his coat of arms to heart and that no one should _truly_ be such a "complete bore." Thaddius found the comment very amusing but Loren Lannister's steely gaze of displeasure was as hard as the Rock itself, and after the matter was settled he spoke to his oldest son privately for what seemed like an eternity.

Thaddius waited patiently all the while, eagerly hoping for details from the scolding, but Damon was mum as always, offering only a shrug, a faint smile, and a complaint that their father had no sense of humor. The heir insisted that the lectures meant nothing to him, but Damon's shoulders always slumped a little lower after leaving their father's solar.

"And what is your counsel then, Lord Rymar?" King Harys asked the Master of Whisperers as he looked at the small balding man with derision, wakening Thaddius from his daydream.

_Gods, they're still discussing this?_

"How many men would you have me march to Oldtown?"

Thaddius quickly brought his attention back to the King and the Master.

_Look alive_, he scolded himself in his father's voice. _This is the part that matters._

Lord Rymar tilted his head and gave a small smile as he replied.

"Why, all of them."

**- DANAE -**

The sun was high when Danae Targaryen and James Rivers walked into the forest of Sharp Point to the small enclosed stone barrier where the Targaryens had hidden their dragons.

When James pushed the gate open, they were met with the loud, reverberating sound of dragon screams. A winged creature flew toward Danae, but was snapped back to the ground by chains, letting loose another screech.

Persion had scales of pearly white and his horns, spinal crest, eyes, and wing bones were gold, as well as his flame. He was around the size of a large dog and once she unchained him he climbed willingly into her oversized luggage where he snuggled down amongst her clothing.

The dragon's nature was calm, almost lazy in fact, as he had lived secluded in the barrier for so long and had been coddled by Danae and her father both. Many an afternoon the two had spent in the garden, throwing the little beast scraps of meat and watching delightedly as he cooked them in his own breath in seconds before swallowing them whole.

Danae smiled at the memories of her father as she stroked and talked to the dragon. Another shriek interrupted her thoughts, however, and she finally took note of Caelon, her sister's dragon, still chained and rather unhappy about it.

She looked longingly at Aeslyn's beast. Caelon was much larger than Persion, with black scales and tanned markings.

"What good to us will Caelon be when she's handed to the Lannisters?" she said aloud. "I have no way to take her with me, but I can't leave her here. Aeslyn will let her starve."

Danae turned to look back at James as he stood in the doorway. His eyes were wide and apprehensive and his mouth hung halfway open in shock. Dragons had not been seen in Westeros by any eyes other than Targaryen's in over two hundred years.

"We can't take that one with us," he spoke finally. "I don't even know how we'll hide the one that you have."

Aeslyn's dragon was the largest of the three that had been passed down from her grandparents, but she was also the least intelligent and the most violent. Danae approached her cautiously in order to unlock the chains from her neck. As she drew closer, the dragon screamed in panic and raised her wings in an attempt to fly. Danae hurriedly stepped back as Caelon unleashed a short burst of black fire from her fearsome jaws.

"What has Aeslyn done to you?" Danae whispered in shock as she and James stood and watched the dragon beat its wings in agitation and fear.

"Danae," James spoke quietly, as if out reverence toward the beasts, "She'll snap her neck trying to escape from those chains. Sharp Point will be abandoned after we leave. Perhaps we can use a longer chain to place her outside. She'll be able to hunt on her own at least."

Danae frowned and stood in thought for several minutes. Finally she approached Caelon softly and spoke quiet, gentle words as the dragon's black eyes watched her warily. She reached out to touch black scales and felt the heat from the dragon's body rising against her fingers. Danae cooed quietly and unlocked the dragon's chains.

The sounds of rustling metal created another panic and Caelon opened her jaws, dark smoke erupting from the dragon's nostrils as she snapped at Danae. The Targaryen leapt back but Caelon lunged again and this time her small teeth nicked the skin of Danae's upper arm. The dragon reared and shook her head wildly to and fro before she attempted to coil and attack Danae again, her great black wings beating the air and sending forth gusts of wind.

James drew his blade but Danae screamed in protest.

"_No!"_

Suddenly a burst of golden fire and a loud scream filled the small room as Persion spread his wings in freedom for the first time. He flew toward Caelon and wrapped his jaws around her long, serpentine neck. The distraction gave Danae time to run to James and they stood to watch the dragons dance in fire and the fury of snapping teeth.

Heat from the flames pressed against James and Danae and they stepped quickly back toward the door. Caelon was larger, but she appeared afraid to move despite her chains being unlocked and lying on the ground. Years of Aeslyn's harsh words and abuse kept the dragon grounded in fear and paralyzed as Persion flew around her with his jaws snapping madly. Finally, Caelon cowered into submission as Danae found her voice and screamed her dragon's name.

"_Persion!"_

He flew back to her feet at once, suddenly docile, and nudged her with his head. Spots of blood began to seep through Danae's dress where Caelon had nicked her skin. James grabbed the luggage and pulled it outside as Danae watched Aeslyn's dragon coil itself into a trembling mound of fear.

She turned and walked outside as Persion and James followed closely behind, the dragon gliding lazily above them and the water dancer shooting wary glances over his shoulder as they walked, beginning the trek back up to the small holdfast at Sharp Point. They left the gate to the enclosed area open, though the Targaryen did not expect Caelon to emerge any time soon.

"It will take that one weeks to figure out she is unchained and able to go outside," Danae spoke quietly. "I imagine she'll be driven out by starvation. If she survives, I doubt she'll travel very far."

"We'll be miles away at that point," James replied as he watched Persion curiously. "She's none of your concern now, Danae. Leave any troubles she may bring for Aeslyn to clean up."

"His reaction to Caelon yesterday at least gives me some hope that he may serve some purpose for us."

Before James could reply, a silhouette appeared on the path ahead of them. Danae stopped at once.

"That's her," James said.

"And you certain she can be trusted?" Danae replied, glancing warily ahead as the figure drew closer. Persion seemed to take no interest as he circled above his master calmly.

"I've already spoken to her," James said, a smile spreading across his face. "Trust me; you're going to like this one."

Danae had no time to reply before the stranger was upon them.

Summer Steelsong was long and lithe with caramel skin, golden hair, and bright green eyes. A sword hung from her hip, sheathed in a worn scabbard, and her smile was inviting as she approached.

"You must be Lady Danae Targaryen," she said, giving a bow. "I am Summer Steelsong, at your service."

Danae looked upon the pretty waterdancer with curiosity and a bit of surprise.

_A female sellsword… _she thought, smiling inwardly. _James knows me well._

"Walk with us," Danae said, her tone firm and authoritative. "Tell me about yourself."

Summer took a long look at the dragon overhead and for a moment it seemed as though she hadn't heard the question. After a pause, she managed to peel her eyes away from the beast and she fell into step alongside the two.

"Not much to say, m'lady," she began. "My father was a former hedge knight from the Westerlands and my mother was a Dornish whore. I was born on a ship as my mother crossed the Narrow Sea to seek her fortune in Essos. Much of my time in Braavos as a child was spent learning to waterdance from a young Braavosi I befriended, and eventually from the master who took me on as an apprentice."

Summer shrugged, still smiling, "I've explored, eavesdropped, discovered secrets, frequented places I did not belong, and picked pockets. In time, my father discovered he had a daughter and when I was fourteen my mother sent me to Westeros. My father, Ser Prentiss the Valiant, had by then earned a small keep in the peaceful lands of the Reach for defending a lord's heir from bandits."

She tapped the sword sheathed at her hip and smiled. "It was there he gave me the name Steelsong, when he saw me defeat a fellow knight. I soon found myself in the service of House Dayne of Starfall, and it was after many letters from Grand Maester Orin that Lord Martyn Dayne allowed me to come assist you on your journey."

Danae wasn't sure how to respond. Throughout her own life, the Targaryen had been exposed to few women beyond the wives of the merchants her father had traded with. None of the women seemed to have any control over their lives, and few had even traveled outside of the Crownlands. Yet here before her now sat a woman who had chosen her own path of adventure.

Danae found herself smiling.

"And I'm so very glad you're here."

**- THE LION'S DAUGHTER -**

Bloodstone was a hard place, Ashara knew. Pirate Kings and lords had held it as their dens in years gone by, and great battles were fought there during the Wars of the Ninepenny Kings. From the ship she could see it bustling with hushed anticipation,from the great fortress harbor of Homeward Bound to the streets of Burntbone, where her maester had told her that Aegon VI was laid to rest.

Hard place or no, it had been a long, arduous voyage, and Ashara was glad when the_ Lion's Roar_ glided into port. She watched from the rail next to her father, Lord Loren Lannister, and a retinue of several lesser knights as the harbour grew closer.

Ashara was a small thing at sixteen, with long golden hair that fell in ringlets past her shoulders. Her eyes were a deep green and looked out across the harbor curiously framed by thick, feminine lashes.

"Which lords will be here for the council?" she asked, her voice as soft and delicate as her face.

Lord Loren did not so much as glance at her. A rider was fast approaching the docks as the ship drew close.

"We'll soon see."

The Lannister's flag ship was a proud vessel, and its massive size seemed to impress the Lorathi Sell-Sails greatly. Ashara overheard a captain try to beg the purchase of the Roaring Lion before he noticed the Lannister guards in steel and red cloaks.

The youngest lion didn't recognize the man who rode to meet them at Homeward Bound. He was queer looking, with short cropped silver hair and two mismatched eyes - one watery green and the other gray. His presence made her feel ill at ease, but she did not show it as she stood beside her father and watched him dismount.

Loren addressed the man as Varyo Velaryon and after exchanging courtesies, he led the Lannisters to a covered carriage which was to bring them to the castle. Ashara gently pushed aside the sheer lavender curtains and gazed out the window as they rode over the bumpy and cobbled streets.

_Such an alien place._

Most of the people she saw were not Westerosi, and foreign languages filled the air. The carriage traveled down the main road, exposing the young girl to strangeness and unfamiliarity at every bend and turn.

When they finally reached the holdfast and the stranger led them up the winding staircase of one its towers to a rounded council room, Ashara's initial uneasiness was replaced with curiosity. Already in the chamber were grizzled sellsword captains, well dressed lords from noble Westerosi houses, two Lyscene courtesans, and servants with bronze skin. They were all conversing amongst themselves and Ashara was relieved to recognize the sounds of the common tongue.

When the men took note of Lord Loren Lannister and his daughter in the threshold, the conversation tapered off and all eyes turned to face the new arrivals. The last to look up was the man at the head of the table.

He was olive skinned, with dark brown hair and eyes of a rich chestnut color with just the slightest traces of violet, perhaps even red. He was broad of shoulders, and looked to be around seven and twenty years old. He stared out across the table at Ashara and the Warden of the West with a smug smile on his not altogether unhandsome face.

"Pray be seated, my lord and lady," Varyo broke the silence, gesturing to two empty seats nearby. "I'd assume you have questions."

The men seated around the great oaken table exchange glances as Lord Loren pulled a chair out first for Ashara, the only woman in the room apart from the courtesans, and she sat down quietly and smoothed out the folds in her scarlet sleeves were tight around her arms but widened at her hands, flaring out and embroidered with glittery gold stitching.

The Lord of Casterly Rock sat down beside her. He was also garbed in crimson, and the colors of House Lannister stood out almost forebodingly in the now crowded council room, serving as a dark reminder of just how high the stakes of this meeting were.

_These people fear my father_, she thought to herself, staring at each of their faces in turn. Old men, young men, lords and warriors, men with gray beards and deep lines on their faces and scars underneath their tunics of boiled leather… men with silver broaches and soft hands that had never pushed a plow or wiped sweat from a dirty forehead after a long day's work… They eyed the Lord of the wealthiest house in all of Westeros with a combination of apprehension and begrudging reverence.

Lord Loren placed a gold coin on the table, the upwards side showing a bearded king with a head on his shoulder.

"We've come for your promises," he said coolly, "Perhaps you would do well to explain yourself."

Ashara brought her gaze from the coin to Varyo as he took a deep breath and dabbed at his discolored eye, still standing somewhat awkwardly apart from the table.

"My lords and ladies, you all know too well that war is overdue. You all know too well the follies of King Harys. The Stag is in bed with the Rose, and the realm stinks of folly. It only remains to be decided when the war shall come. I have brought you here to tell you that the time is today, and now!"

Varyo gestured towards the man at the head of the table with the olive skin.

"You see before you Aerion, of the House Blackfyre, first of his name," Varyo introduced. "Rightful King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men. The King with the Sword and the Last True Dragon! With your leave, Loren, your daughter Ashara shall marry Aerion; we shall crown them King and Queen at the Rock. The Lords of Westeros will rise for their rightful king and then we shall crush the forces of the Stag and Rose alike."

Ashara's face betrayed nothing and her father's emerald eyes were hard.

"Last true dragon? Forgive me, my lords, I did not realize this to be a farce."

Loren Lannister looked around the table slowly as he spoke, and men averted their eyes when they felt his icy gaze upon them.

"A dragon in King's Landing, a dragon at the Wall, a dragon flirting with the men at court… No, there are many dragons, and many with a better claim."

Varyo smiled a sly smile, like a man noting a fish take the bait. He leaned in closer to the Lord of Casterly Rock.

"You see those fair ladies there, my lord?"

He indicated two beautiful Lyscene women, giggling towards the back of the room. Ashara watched as they posed and fluttered, batting thick eyelashes and winking at some of the men seated around the table. They were were called courtesans and masters of the seven sighs in the Free Cities, but Ashara knew what her father would call them.

"Would you deny that they were blood of the dragon?" Varyo asked. "Are their eyes not as purple as our esteemed lord hand? Is their hair not as silver spun as the dragon at the court? These two girls are whores, my lord, as common as pig shit. Well trained? Yes. Fair? Yes, but simple smallfolk through and through."

Varyo began to slowly walk around the room, his hand grazing the backs of the chairs the noblemen were seated in.

"These two girls swear the dragons at court are their siblings. They were plucked from a Lyscene brothel at so tender an age by our noble king, told they were dragon blood. As for the truth of the matter? Well, they say that those left standing write the tales."

Loren's mouth tightened in what passed for a smile, something Ashara rarely saw.

"Perhaps I was too quick to judge, Master Velaryon," he replied.

"High praise, my lord."

"I've said this before and I'll say it again," a new voice spoke at last. Ashara turned to see Lord Gylen Hightower of the Reach speaking. Even if he didn't wear a silver pendant with his house's sigil pinned to his plain gray doublet, she would have recognized his thick bushy mustache anywhere.

"The Blackfyres are nothing but history long passed. They are forgotten; the last to rise was over three hundred years ago. Why should we believe this is a Blackfyre heir? And why should we believe any lords will wish to support him besides those that have joined us here?"

Varyo had clearly anticipated this question.

"As for the lords, I have a Bolton and a Manderly on the way. They will go with the Bright Banners and Maiden's men with the swords still here and raise what they can from the North. They should at least keep the Starks occupied, and hopefully scorch the land between White Harbour and the Wolfswood. Lord Orys Connington is securing loyalties south of the capital. They should be able to pin down the forces in the Stormlands." He paused and raised an eyebrow at the Lord from Oldtown. "And the legitimacy? Well, I believe I've proven to Lord Loren already what that is worth."

"I care not for his legitimacy," Gylen snapped. "I care what it means to the lords of Westeros and the Smallfolk. If this pact binds me to the Golden Company and the Lannisters and if it earns me the Reach, I will consider it. I simply doubt your potential outside this room. The Stormlands could turn cloaks, but Dorne is ambiguous. I may be able to convince the Prince, but it is not assured. I care little for the North or the Riverlands, but both will be difficult to control even with all our forces combined. Excuse my worries, but I have my own plots, and I simply do not wish to put them to waste for false promises."

His moustache twitched as he spoke, and Ashara smiled inwardly but kept her face relaxed and composed. People always said that she had her father's poise, and that compliment was worth a hundred of the ones she heard regularly regarding her beauty.

She noted with great pride that she was able to recognize the majority of the lords in the room. Her oldest brother had a gift for remembering names and faces, and she could hear Damon's voice in her head describing each and every one of them.

"A slippery sneak," she recalled him saying about Macewood Rowan, seated to her left. He had a sour look about him, with a narrow face and a nose that was too long for it. "Lord Baelor Tyrell sent his brother to the Wall for trying to hire swords from Essos, and Macewood has wanted to put a dagger in his back ever since."

Curly haired Corliss Caron was present as well. He was one of the younger men in the room and proudly wore his cloak of yellow speckled with black nightingales, though other lords that Ashara recognized chose not to don their house colors for such a dangerous meeting.

"Corliss would make a better bard than a soldier," Damon had said of the man when he visited the Rock as a squire to their uncle Aemon Estermont years ago. Her brother had made it seem as if there were nothing worse than that, but Ashara had enjoyed listening to the lord play the high harp.

To his left sat a much older man with hair as white as the feathers of the gulls that flocked about the fish markets of Lannisport. This man too wore his sigil - a naked woman wreathed in a swirl of pale silk against an azure field, which Ashara knew to be the coat of arms of House Pinkmaiden, making the man presumably Lord Lewys.

"That's his daughter on their sigil," Damon once told her when she was little. "You should go tell him how lovely she looks on his banners."

That was the last time she listened to oldest brother's advice, and Ashara carefully avoided making eye contact with the lord as she sat at the council table, a girl among men. The strangers and sellswords far outnumbered the Westerosi lords.

The next person to speak was someone that Ashara hadn't seen before. He had a stern face and bronze skin, and both his eyes and hair were as black as coal. He looked to be around middle aged, and when he spoke it was with a lordly voice, though he wore no coat of arms - only the image of a black spear topped with golden skulls sewn onto the breast of his doublet.

"Master Varyo, if I may intervene," he began. "What do we know of this boy, other than his bloodline? Is he really fit to rule the Seven Kingdoms? This is to say nothing of the lack of proof that he really has the blood of old Valyria."

"You know, Commander Robert," Varyo began as he moved back to his place at the head of the table and motioned to one of the whores. "They called the Blackfyres the 'Kings with the sword,' and he does indeed have that."

The whore set upon the table a cloth bundle, and Ashara leaned over the table for a better view as Varyo unrolled it carefully, revealing the shards of a broken blade.

"Not proof plenty," he said, waving a hand over the broken sword, "But proof enough for power, no?"

The commander appeared taken aback by this new evidence. "That is Blackfyre," he said quietly, his voice laced with awe, "Wielded by Aegon the Conqueror…"

He stood from the table and dropped to his knee as many of the men began whispering. Ashara looked over at her father, but Loren's austere expression did not falter.

"My sword and those of the Golden Company are yours to command, your Grace," the kneeling commander said.

Aerion stood from his seat, the jarring scraping of his chair against stone bringing a halt to the whispering.

"These questions do not matter," he spoke at last, his voice deep and commanding. "Does it matter what blood flows through my veins? Whether I am a dragon or not?" He stood and moved slowly from his end of the table to Varyo's side, looking at each of the faces of the lords present as he walked. His gaze lingered longer on Ashara, and she felt a chill run down her spine. "What I am is a person who remembers his friends."

He stopped when he reached the Spymaster, and placed a hand against the broken shards of the sword they were calling Blackfyre.

"The question of blood, of legitimacy, of right to rule only comes to this. Here is the evidence of my lineage. The smallfolk will love me for being a king from the ancient past, come anew. The Golden Company will finally return home. You, Lord Hightower! If I am blood of the dragon or not, will it make you the Lord of the Reach? And you Lord Lannister, if I am the dark flame or not, will that not increase the power of your house and rid you of a king who seeks after your wealth?"

"My Lords," he spread his arms, "I am a practical man, a loyal man. My loyalty to my people in Westeros and in the Golden Company will assure me of their support. My promises to you this day should guarantee yours. I am the bridge between powers in this realm. All of you have ambitions and through me they can be achieved."

He grinned now, a wide and treacherous smile that made the hair on Ashara's neck stand on end.

"Or they can continue to be dreams, just out of reach of your grasp until they fade away like so much smoke."

**- AESLYN -**

The Targaryen girls had been staying in one of the smaller rooms in the great castle of Harrenhal. It was kind of Lord Emmon Baelish to host them within his own walls, given the reputation of their broken and exiled house. Likely the courtesy was one more of pity than respect. Perhaps he was swayed by the girls' beauty. Perhaps he thought the Targaryen sisters too innocent of their ancestor's crimes to be punished by being left to fend for themselves in the inns of the Riverlands, especially during the commotion following the tournament.

Danae Targaryen could not have cared less if they stayed in a castle or slept on a tavern floor. The girl of ten and eight did not share her older sister's love of material things. She was happy to be at the tournament and took a great interest in the games, but as soon as the event ended she equally was happy to leave. Danae thought the castle of Harrenhal to be cursed, and she gladly put the fortress behind when she left for Sharp Point weeks ago.

_I hope she is torn to pieces by wolves on her way to the Wall_, Aeslyn thought, running the brush through her long silvery blonde hair as she sat before a looking glass. Unlike her younger sister, the head of House Targaryen was enjoying the upgrade from their usual accommodations at Massey's Hook and though the rest of the guests had long since left, she remained.

_She thinks herself so courageous and so valiant, but a pretty little child like her won't last a week on the road, even with her bastard friend and his knitting needle of a sword._

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

She looked up at the sound and called out sweetly, "Enter, please."

A pudgy man opened the door, clad in a chainmail hauberk over a shirt of boiled leather. The colors of Lannister red adorned the armor and upon his hip sat a longsword, looking to have been used little in its lifetime.

"Lady Aeslyn."

The man bowed low, the sweat on his balding head gleaming in the sunlight spilling through the windowsill.

"I've heard tales of your beauty; they do not do it justice." The man said, suddenly paling when he realized his breach in stature. "Forgive me, my lady, I am old and forgetful and seem to have misplaced my etiquette. I am Ser Eddrick Lannett, envoy of House Lannister. It is my honor to escort you to Casterly Rock."

Aeslyn stood from her perch and gave a slight curtsy, a delicate smile dancing on her lips.

"It is a pleasure, Ser Eddrick, and thank you for the kind words. I expect you must be thirsty after your journey, yes? I hope it wasn't too arduous."

Lady Aeslyn made her way to a table where she kept a tray with glasses and a decanter of wine. She poured two cups and offered one to Ser Lannett.

"Thank you, my lady." Eddrick accepted the glass and drank deeply, wiping the corner of his mouth on the sleeve of his boiled armor. He stood nervously, clutching the half-full cup. "Not in so many words, my lady. The Gold Road is not as treacherous as it once was, though I cannot comment on the length."

He sipped at the wine nervously, perhaps hoping to find some courage at the bottom of the cup.

Aeslyn gave a small laugh. Her voice was as soothing as a lullaby.

"Ser Eddrick, it's quite alright you know. You needn't be nervous around me. I am just the same as your Lord Lannister. Let us get to the matter at hand. When do we depart and how long will it take to get to Casterly Rock?"

The lady's fingers delicately circled the rim as she gazed at the old envoy before her. Her violet eyes appeared soft like a doe's and her lips held a faint smile. She was alluring, no doubt, but she possessed a certain beauty that was almost disconcerting.

The knight spoke quickly, trying his best to avoid staring. "We depart at your pleasure, my lady. Lord Loren made it very clear that your comfort and safety were of the utmost importance. The journey takes no more than a week."

His glass was empty now, hanging awkwardly in his chubby fingers.

She took the cup from his hand and set it on the tray along with her own.

"Then we will depart on the morrow. I wish to leave as soon as possible."

_If by some miracle Danae survives the journey to the Wall, I will need to to make certain she does not leave it._

"Are you alright with that, Ser Lannett? Or would you like to rest a little more and depart in the afternoon?"

Ser Lannett looked as though he would very much like the rest but he drew himself up and shook his head. "No my lady, on the morrow it is. I will instruct your handmaidens to bring down your things."

Aeslyn tilted her head and looked at the knight curiously.

"Ser Lannett," she asked, "How long have you been in service to the Lannisters?"

"Oh, some odd forty years my lady, I squired under Tyrius Lannister at the age of nine. A kind man that, impatient though, a trait that showed in his swordplay. Don't get me wrong, at the time I saw everything he did through a green boy's eyes. The way that man could work the sword..." Ser Lannett thrust an imaginary sword at imaginary defenders for a moment, before glancing at Lady Aeslyn, harrumphing self consciously. "But looking back, his strokes were always attacking, never defending. Little wonder that he fell during the Greyjoy rebellion. Some say it was an axe, but I like to think it was his own impatience that did him in."

Aeslyn gave a bemused smile and raised an eyebrow.

_What an odd fellow. So different from the reputation of his lord._

"And what could you tell me of Damon Lannister, Ser Lannett?" she asked. "What's he like? If I recall, he is twenty and two years, correct?"

"Twenty and three, I believe. Damon could charm the gold out of your pouch and make you happy he did it... Though he'd have spent it all by the day's end," Ser Lannett laughed before containing himself. "In truth, it's not my place to say. He's a kind lad, but troubled. He's had his share of drinks and whores, but with a father like that..."

He trailed off, letting the sentence finish itself. "Ah, forgive me, my lady," he said after a pause. "I have taken up enough of your time! Doubtless you wish to get some rest before we depart on the morrow. I shall leave you in peace, and call for you after sunrise."

Aeslyn smiled, and led the aging knight to the door. "I look forward to it, Ser Lannett." She watched his back as he departed down the hallway.

_I look forward to it very much, indeed..._

**- TROY -**

The Rose Road to Oldtown was long and winding, passing over rivers, sidling up alongside mountains, and stretching over hills and valleys. King Harys and his men marched somberly alongside the Tyrells:, Lord Baelor and his two sons, Troy and Benjen. At the head of the column rode three members of the Kingsguard as well - Ser Jaime Florent, its Lord Commander, Ser Thaddius Lannister, and Ser Jon "Halfjon" Umber. The Baratheon King had rallied nearly every last man of his in a fit of rage when he learned of Maude Tyrell's disappearance.

When they did arrive at Oldtown, they found the gates closed and barred.

"Lord Gylen! The King's host approaches!"

Bells rang, echoing throughout the city. Lord Gylen descended from the Hightower, and took to his horse, galloping down the cobblestone streets to the walls. His heart raced, but his confidence was not shattered yet. Behind him, his host of over twenty thousand organized, lining the streets and filling up the main plazas and courtyards. They had been waiting for this day since whispers first came of the King's army marching along the Rose Road.

Soon Gylen reached Oldtown's tall, archaic walls and climbed them, followed by guards. He emerged on top to stand above the main gate. On either side of him, fully armed city guards lined the walls, making for an impressive display.

A scout did not arrive as expected. Instead, King Harys himself approached, mounted on his destrier. No bows were armed, no threats made. Gylen called down at his king.

"Greetings, Your Grace! I see you have arrived in full force for this misunderstanding. I would love to speak with you." He pointed to the King's army. "But I will speak from here, unless you wish to call your armies off. Or, you may ride in with your Kingsguard and necessary attendants and eat my bread and salt, agreeing to the laws of Guest Right. Either way, I know we both wish not to use our armies, however ready and posed they are."

The King's jaw clenched. "I shall stay here, my Lord. But I will happily call my army off if you give me the Lady Maude. Then I will gladly return to King's Landing."

"Aha! So this is about Lady Maude, is it? Your Grace, I would be glad to accept you and show to you that I, in fact, do not have Lady Maude. Please, come inside. I wish to learn why you suspect me of this heinous crime."

There was a loud lurching sound, and the elegant, sturdy gates of Oldtown slowly opened. They stopped after only a few moments, creating an entrance just wide enough for two or three mounted men to pass through at a time. At the threshold, the Hightower's maester stood, holding a tray with bread and salt, the customary food given to seal the Guest Right.

"Your Grace, you may take me for a kidnapper, but do you really take me for a man who would betray the Guest Right? I swear on the safety of Oldtown, you will not be harmed, killed, or maimed if you enter. And if you know me well, you will know I do not swear on that lightly."

Troy Tyrell immediately turned to his king. "Your Grace, I shall go with you," he said pleadingly and Thaddius Lannister, garbed in his white Kingsguard armor and his snow white cape, scowled at him.

"It is the duty of the _Kingsguard_ to protect his Grace, Tyrell," Thaddius pointed out, annoyed.

"She was a guest at the Red Keep, Hightower," King Harys answered Gylen, glaring up at the man and ignoring the bickering young men behind him. "It was said that you took her captive."

"Ser Jaime, Halfjon, Troy, accompany me through the gates," he commanded two of his Kingsguard. Turning back to Gylen, he shouted up, "If I am harmed, expect the twenty thousand soldiers outside to bring your walls down around you."

"Fantastic!" Gylen replied. "I will meet you down there!"

Thaddius Lannister glared at the Tyrell lad as he flashed him a smug smile and trotted off after the King.

Gylen swiftly turned from the wall, rushing down the stairs. He appeared in the threshold next to the Maester and stood patiently as the party dismounted and accepted his offer of bread and salt before letting them fully through the gates and into the city by foot.

He led them to the main street out the Gate in Oldtown. The sight was shocking. As far down the street as the party could see stood men-at-arms and knights. They lined the side of the road at attention, wearing the colors of the Golden Company, Oldtown, and its bannermen.

"Welcome to Oldtown, your Grace." Gylen smirked and bent his knee, and the entire Oldtown army did as well. They stood after a time, and Gylen lead the King's party down the street. "Would your Grace like to explain why you believe I have taken the Tyrell girl captive?"

King Harys surveyed the men warily, raising an eyebrow. He had not known that Lord Hightower contracted with the Golden Company.

_Another failure of that Lord Rymar… It's almost as if he is deliberately keeping me in the dark..._

"Looks much different since the last I came," he remarked, "There has been rumor that you have taken the Lady Maude captive."

"Yes, that is clear. Perhaps you would like to explain why you think this? I do not want to believe you mustered your entire army on the basis of a rumor, your Grace."

He led the party down the streets, making for the Hightower.

"Then why did you muster yours?" Troy spoke up, his voice venomous.

Gylen laughed and turned his head to the Tyrell lordling, pointing out the gates. "If you could, would you not do so upon hearing about an army marching to your own seat? It matters not why or for whom this army marches, but that it is an army for war. I am simply being safe, ser, you cannot accuse me of that."

"You could not have mustered an army this size so quickly, especially not one twice the size of your usual retinues. You had to have bought the Golden Company months before you knew we were coming."

Gylen nodded and then shrugged. "Fine. Perhaps I suspect war. We all do. I am simply ready to march with Highgarden and Lord Baelor to whatever conflict we have gotten ourselves into this time. I promise, now we will be your first responders in case of disaster, Ser Troy. I am hurt you believe these things of me. Have I not always followed your lord father?"

"I know you are planning to take Highgarden, Lord Gylen," King Harys said coolly. "Is it not coincidental that you would take Lady Maude, one of Lord Baelor's daughters? Surely you mean to keep her captive until you have gotten what you've wanted."

Gylen stopped, his face turning sour. "Your Grace, I apologize, but you know nothing about my intentions. You accuse me of crime after crime, and why? Because you hear rumors? Whispers? I would be delighted to see your proof, but until you have some, you know nothing. I did not think the Father's justice was based on suspicion and folly, Your Grace, but perhaps I was wrong."

Harys scowled, "And you give me lie after lie. Tell me, Lord Gylen. Why do you have all these men assembled? You are telling me if I searched Oldtown and Hightower, that I wouldn't find Lady Maude?"

Lord Hightower raised his voice, angered now. "You have not a shred of evidence! Nothing! The King's Justice dictates you must protect my rights as a lord and as a citizen of Westeros, and that is not what I see here! This Tyrell knight enters your court and tells you his sister is gone, so you march on Oldtown! Yes, your Grace. You may search Oldtown and my seat through and through, this Tyrell girl is not here. Now, would you like me to show you for yourself? I assure you there are no imprisoned ladies here."

Troy was visibly angry now, rage burning behind his golden brown eyes, "You've always hated the Tyrells, just like your father before you, I know you're up to something. If you didn't kidnap her, you know who did!"

He grabbed Lord Gylen suddenly by his collar and slammed him against a wall, _"TELL ME!"_

The second Gylen was touched, every guard within eyesight turned. The army enveloped the party around the wall. Spears were pointed at the heads of the King's party, swordsmen readied themselves for battle, arrows were notched and aimed at everyone but Gylen. No one moved, but Gylen grinned and laughed.

"Ser, I hope you have a nice time in the seven hells. You have just besmirched the Guest Right, in the eyes of the Seven." He squirmed uncomfortably under the knight's plated arm, but was giddy regardless.

There was a long, tense moment.

"Please do not be more foolish than you already have." He turned his head as much as he was allowed by his aggressor towards the King. "I will allow you to search my city, but clearly tensions are too high from the house of my noble lordling. I ask you that all Tyrells and Tyrell bannermen leave at once, or else you will _all _leave. That is a request from your host, who you have just disrespected severely."

The King narrowed his eyes, his gaze flitting from soldier to soldier, each with a weapon trained at him. "Fine. As you wish," he stared then at Lord Gylen, suspicion and loathing written on his face.

"We _all _leave."

**- DANAE -**

The road had been quiet. The frozen winter ground was hard beneath their horses' hooves as Danae Targaryen, James Rivers, and Summer Steelsong rode north along the Kingsroad from Massey's Hook through the Riverlands. It was the first time they had taken their mounts to the well traveled path. Wary of being spotted by any unsavory wanderers, they kept to the woods as best as they could.

Summer Steelsong and James Rivers rode behind Danae. Their eyes and ears were alert to anything unusual in the surroundings. Nothing foul befell the travelers as the days faded to nights, and the party camped and arose each morn to continue once more, swallowing the leagues between them and the Wall.

The band traveled lightly, packing just minimal clothing, few furs, and one sleeping dragon. Begrudgingly, Danae had left most of her books after Summer and James insisted they could not bring them along. James would travel into the inns and retrieve food while Summer and Danae waited hidden in the woods. Sometimes he returned with rumors, whispers about marching armies and amassing forces, a kidnapped noblewoman and a dead lord paramount.

By day, Persion rode in Danae's luggage, a trunk with holes carved into it that hung between two of their horses. Danae kept a hooded cloak of dark brown over her head at all times, and James and Summer kept their steel ready at their waists. At night, they slept beneath the stars if the weather was good enough. Danae never felt cold, with Persion curled up at her side, the heat from his scaly skin hotter than any campfire.

He was breathing softly, small puffs of smoke shooting from his nostrils every now and then as he huffed at some imaginary enemy in his dreams.

James and Summer were seated by the fire, and the bastard prodded it with a sharpened stick while the sellsword skinned a rabbit.

"Who was your master in Braavos?" Danae heard Summer ask James, ripping the rabbits fur over its head.

"I had the honor of being taught by Mart Forel," James replied proudly. "And you?"

"Mart Forel was one of the best dancers in Braavos," she said politely. "I trained with Fallon of Lys, who won the big duel against Maeron Stormborn atop the roof of the Inn of the Green Eel. The day I beat Fallon was the day he gave me Maeron's sword as my own."

"Yes, I recall watching the duel. The two men were fierce warriors, Master Forel said so himself. He also gifted me with a sword when I finished my training," James nodded at the recollection and patted the waterdancer's sword in its hilt at his hip.

"Your sword has beautiful craftsmanship," Summer replied as she eyed the blade. She set down the rabbit and drew her own sword a few inches from its sheath and revealed the smoky grey ripples of Valyrian steel along the slender blade.

Danae's eyes were drawn to the sword like a moth to flame, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. She had never seen anything like it and a strange feeling filled her all at once, an intense longing in her heart and an ache in her chest, though she could not say why.

_I've never wielded a blade in my life_, she reminded herself, confused by the surge of emotion she felt upon glancing the sword.

James whistled softly. "How in seven hells did you end up with a Valyrian steel longsword? It's even slender enough to use as a waterdancer's blade."

"Must have been fate," Summer shrugged as she resheathed the sword. "We've been traveling for weeks now, and I know very little about you. I hope you are more generous with your blade to your enemies than you are with your words to your friends, James," she changed the topic of discussion wryly.

James chuckled at the woman's words. "I spent the first fourteen years of my life with my mother in Maidenpool, a small town southeast of here. As soon as I was able to leave, I boarded a fisherman's trade ship and set sail for Braavos. It was there that I learned the art of the waterdancing and I returned only less than one year ago to find that my mother had died. I heard rumors in Braavos of the Targaryens living in Westeros, so I sought out their house upon my return. I curse the gods everyday for taking my mother from me."

Danae shifted quietly in her bedroll. In all the time she had known him, James had spoken little to her of his past. She was grateful that the two did not turn around to see that she wasn't really sleeping.

"My mother died in Lys, poisoned by a lover," Danae heard Summer offer in response. "The gods are cruel, James, to make us suffer so."

"Aye," James began to reply. "As for me, I serve only the god of death."

"Valar Morghulis," Summer responded quickly. "If gods are real, I want nothing to do with them. They do nothing for me. But fire, blood... those things I understand. I understand justice and wanting what is yours. I understand revenge."

_As do I, Summer, _Danae thought to herself as Persion let out another angry snort of smoke in his sleep. _As do I..._

**- THE LION'S DAUGHTER -**

The twin sails of the ship made an impressive sight as it entered the harbor of Lannisport, gulfing the small fishing vessels and longboats of the townsfolk. The _Lion's Roar_ was considered one of the finest galleys in the Lannister fleet. Boasting two main masts and a hundred oars, the ship could overrun many smaller boats, though it still held no weight against the swan ships of the Summer Seas. Loren Lannister stood at the rail, watching the looming figure of Casterly Rock grow on the horizon.

The return voyage from Bloodstone had been made quick by favorable winds. The Westerosi ship captain had praised the Seven for their luck and the winds held all the way to Lannisport.

Ashara Lannister had spent much of the voyage below deck or hanging over the rail, her stomach fighting a losing disagreement with the churning waters of Summer Sea; but now she came to her father's side, pale faced and somewhat weakly. Her betrothed was seldom seen throughout the journey, opting to instead spend much of his time amongst papers and his fragmented sword.

The father and his daughter stood in silence for a moment, watching the keep, until the girl finally spoke.

"I'm nervous," she confessed, green eyes fixed on some unknown point in the distance.

Loren's gaze did not waver, but he responded, words fighting the strong ocean breeze.

"No, you're a Lannister."

With those words, Loren turned and departed, leaving Ashara by the rails, Casterly Rock looming immense on the horizon...

The Great Hall of the castle had been prepared for a wedding feast. Ravens had arrived days prior and an assortment of wines, foods, singers, and fools awaited their arrival. Roast boar with honey sauce, cooked salmon glazed in rhyflower, bread, pastries, red oranges from Dorne, cooked venison, quail, chilled apples - the plates piled high and courses were served one after the other until the amount was too numerous to count.

Wine flowed freely from every glass - Dornish red, Arbor gold, Tyroshi pear brandy. The lords and ladies sipped and drank a myriad of beverages and in one corner a particularly drunk lord had already passed out, snoring loudly into his cup.

Ashara Lannister and Aerion Blackfyre sat in the seats of honor at the head of the table, smiling graciously to all those present. Lady Ashara had regained the appetite that the sea robbed from her, and she munched on lamprey pie and honeycomb while she giggled with the ladies and maidens that she had known her whole life.

The apprehension was still there in the form of butterflies in her stomach, but she felt excited, too, as she shot sideways glances at the man beside her. He was near twice her age but had the rugged look of a sellsword that her handmaidens very much enjoyed discussing.

"He will be experienced, my lady," they had said with coy smiles and giggles. "Your marriage will not be an unhappy one."

The king-to-be spoke in hushed tones to the men beside him, several high lords from the westerlands bearing sigils of violet, navy, and crimson. Lord Loren sat nearby, making polite conversation with some of his more loyal bannermen and watching the Blackfyre closely.

The night wound down quickly, and Loren soon stood to present the cloaks before the septon. Ashara's cape was red lambswool with the sigil of House Lannister roaring proudly in gold. Aerion's cloak was crimson as well, but bore the sigil of House Blackfyre - a three headed dragon breathing flames, stitched in black.

Loren removed the cloak from around Ashara's neck, as per-tradition, and Aerion placed his own around her shoulders, engulfing her in the safety of her new house. Ashara turned, her small figure made even tinier beneath the giant cape.

Nervously she said, "With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband."

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Aerion replied, without hesitation, "And take you for my lady and wife." Aerion took Ashara in his arms and kissed her forcefully before placing her back on her feet. Ashara felt dizzy from the kiss, and her nervousness returned.

"_You're a Lannister."_

The septon stepped forward, well versed in the ceremony.

"Here in the sight of gods and men, I do solemnly proclaim Aerion of House Blackfyre and Ashara of House Lannister to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

But when the vows ended, the septon raised his voice once more, cutting off the cries of _"off to the bedding!"_

"Not only a husband and wife, but king and queen. Descendant from a long line of Targaryen kings and true heir to the throne, in the light of the seven, Aerion Blackfyre shall be named King of Westeros, and Ashara shall be his Queen. May your reign be long, and your rule just."

Lord Loren stepped forward, a crown forged of gold and emeralds glinting in the torchlight. A lion and a dragon, intertwined.

"Under one house, this land shall know peace, Aerion Blackfyre, true king of Westeros."

The crown was placed upon the Black Dragon's head.

**- TROY -**

"Damn them all to the seven hells!" King Harys cursed, removing the pieces of his armor one by one and throwing them to the ground angrily as he walked back to the encampment. A nervous young squire followed closely behind, picking up the steel and attempting to balance it in his small arms.

Troy Tyrell hung his head in shame, the glare of his father Lord Baelor boring a hole into his back as he walked behind the King and his party. It was his fault that they had been thrown out of Oldtown without finding Maude, and he knew it. Thaddius Lannister seemed to know it as well, judging by the smug smirk the knight of the Kingsguard wore on his handsome young face.

"Your Grace," Jaime Florent was saying, "What would you have us do next? It is possible that the Lady Maude is still in there somewhere, but with the Golden Company in the city, we will never get through their walls."

Harys threw back the flap to the tent and stormed inside to the table laid out in the center. For a moment, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard thought he was going to flip it over, but instead Harys slammed a fist down onto the map atop it and whirled around to face his entourage.

"I did not march my entire army out here to turn around and go home!" he bellowed furiously. "Not without Lady Maude!"

The rest of the men entered the tent tensely, their faces etched with concern, anger, and in some cases hesitancy.

"Your Grace," Lord Baelor began, "We should go to Highgarden. We can call my banners there and return to Oldtown with twice our current strength. We can wrest my daughter free from that vile and slippery Lord Gylen, and gut his sellswords like pigs for the slaughter."

Harys was quiet for a moment, and a few of the lords present exchanged uneasy glances. Many felt uncomfortable as it was already. They were hundreds of leagues from the capital with nearly every soldier the Baratheon King had, and there was little evidence that Maude was in Oldtown at all.

Baratheons were not known for their caution, Troy knew, Harys least of all.

"Yes," The king said after a time, nodding and pulling at his beard, "We will march to Highgarden. There we can muster more men and see if there has been more word as to where Hightower could be keeping her."

"I will lead the van!" Troy said suddenly, lifting his head. He was hoping to redeem himself for his failure in the city, but the King did not want to hear it.

"You're a damned fool if you think I'll let you muck this up again," Harys spat. "No, you're not coming with us. Ser Thaddius," he turned to address the knight, "Escort Lord Tyrell back to the capital. See to it that he remains there, lest we bring down any more of the gods' wrath upon our righteous cause."

Troy started to protest but he felt his brother's hand on his arm and closed his mouth. When he looked to Benjen, his younger sibling shook his head in quiet warning. Troy didn't think it were possible for the Lannister knight to look any more pleased with himself, but Thaddius appeared positively giddy at the King's order.

"Yes, Your Grace," he responded, turning his arrogant smile to Troy, who met it with a loathing glare.

Troy shook off his brother's hand and stormed out of the tent and back into the cold gray light of day. There was a chilly wind blowing to remind them all that it was still winter, but he couldn't shiver with his blood so hot.

_You truly blew it,_ he thought as he slinked back to his own camp through the rows of tents that had been hastily set up outside the walls of the port city of Oldtown. _You could have had a chance at glory, riding like a true knight through the gates of Oldtown with your sword drawn, saving your captured maiden sister and showing the whole realm why the Reach is the capital of chivalry._

"Troy?" a voice he recognized broke through his thoughts. He glanced down to see Mellara at his elbow, her sharp little face looking up at him with a frown as she took two steps for each one of his just to match his pace.

"Mellara, what are you doing here?" Benjen asked, annoyed. "You're supposed to be with the women, not wandering about a camp full of soldiers on your own. Were you eavesdropping again?"

Her cheeks reddened guiltily and her gaze flew to the ground for a moment before she replied, "I may have happened to overhear some words spoken in the King's tent while fetching water…"

He looked accusingly at her empty hands, but she cut him off before he could scold her.

"What happened in Oldtown? Did you find any proof?"

"No, we found nothing," he said. "And the reason that we found nothing is because we were forced to leave before we could even look, because I… I lost my temper. I laid hands on Lord Gylen, violating our Guest Right, so he asked us to leave. There, are you happy now? He's sending me back to the capital to punish me, and I won't get to march into battle."

"Will there really be a battle?" Mellara asked, her brown eyes widening.

Troy nodded, "King Harys is a Baratheon," he said. "A Baratheon never needs an excuse for battle, but Lord Gylen's shiftiness has given him one besides. He has a sellsword army in his walls. The man is preparing for a war."

"Sellswords?"

"That's right," Troy nodded again.

"But why would he purchase sellswords at a time of peace?" Mellara wondered aloud.

"I thought to ask the same thing, sister. He said that he suspects war, and wanted to be ready to march with Highgarden to whatever cause our father chooses."

"More like march _on_ Highgarden," Mellara replied darkly.

Troy drew his lips into a tight smile and nodded grimly. "The Hightowers have always coveted our house's paramountcy. They think that their wealth alone dictates their worth," he scoffed. "Gylen Hightower is about as honorable as a Frey."

Mellara trotted along her older brother, her brow furrowed in thought. After a time, she asked in cautious, worried tones, "Do you… Do you think he's hurt Maude?"

Troy didn't answer right away. His gaze was fixed on some vague point in the distance, though he did not seem as if he were truly seeing anything. His eyes were clouded, whether in fear or anger she could not say. Perhaps it was both.

"I don't know, Mellara," he replied at last. "But if he has, you can be sure that he will pay for it."

**- ULRICH -**

A few days after the council at Bloodstone, a huge Westerosi warship sailed into port at the isle of Bloodstone. A rainbow flag flew at the ship's mast, and a figure dressed in armor as white as the snows of Winterfell descended from the ship. A flowing white cape billowed out behind him, and long mane of white hair fell around his shoulders.

His violet eyes glared at the Golden Company men who came to greet him at the docks.

"I didn't know that in the Stepstones you are greeted with swords and spears," the man said calmly.

The men both looked at him, their Westerosi eyes recognizing the armor and the sword on his back. One of them kept a firm look on his grizzled face and held his sword out, ready to fight. The other, obviously a fresh recruit, couldn't hold his nerve and the spear was shaking in his hands. They hadn't expected any excitement today, and then Ser Ulrich Dayne, the Sword of the Morning ,turned up, jumping from a gigantic warship.

"It's alright, men. I am here to see Varyo Velaryon. I do not wish to fight you," he said, and the shaky one almost lowered his spear, but then a handful more Golden Company men came out, pointing longbows at the knight. He held his hands up, in surrender.

"Take me to Velaryon," he said, as chains were clamped around his hands and he was dragged off towards the castle.

The sellswords threw the Sword of the Morning into a locked room. Bloodstone was never charming. Promise Hill might have its moments in its courtyards, and much charm could be found - for a price, of course - in Burntbone; Homeward Bound, however, was devoid of it. The harbor castle was the first structure to be raised on Bloodstone by the company, built in the aftermath of their failed claim. Slaves from captured galleys and those fleeing the wars of the Free Cities had bled and died to create this monster of lightly colored stone, and it laid over the cove like some great beast.

This room was in the bowels. A narrow window opened on one wall, illuminating the mildewy room. A straw mattress covered one corner and an old desk another.

It was an hour until Ulrich's host arrived. He entered the room flanked by four retainers, one bearing a Norvoshi axe the size of a dinner plate. Varyo came behind them, clad in his eastern styled light armor with a cloth surcoat beneath and a wrap of Velaryon blue tied about it.

No one would ever call Varyo ugly, but neither would they ever say he was comely. He had a gait like a child sneaking from his bed and his hair was the typical Velaryon silver, but it was clipped untidily and stuck up in all the wrong places. It did no wonders for his face, which was unfortunately slightly too chubby to show the high cheekbones of the usual Velaryon stock.

He focused his mismatched eyes on Ulrich, a slightly nervous expression on his face.

"A knight of the Kingsguard is no common sight on Bloodstone, let alone the Sword of the Morning himself. I should give you knowledge of my home city's main expertise and sell your precious sword to some fat magister."

He walked closer into the room.

"Why have you come here, Ser?"

"The sword wouldn't let itself be taken so easily," Ulrich responded. "But that doesn't matter; I'm trusting in your hospitality, Varyo."

The knight laughed and stood up from his seat at the desk. His white cape was covered in muck and straw from the floor, his hair bedraggled and mussed. Still, he stood and was a fair bit taller than Varyo, rivaling his guards for height.

"I came here expecting a nice meal, where we can talk about certain rumors and have a good time. Instead, I get thrown into a cell and treated like some common swineherd. Where are your manners, Varyo? I arrived on a warship, true, but you'll find that we flew a rainbow flag and I did nothing to provoke your guards."

He shook his head. "Didn't your mother ever teach you the rules of hospitality? Or was it Walder Frey who taught you?"

Varyo stepped back a little. He was possessed by a certain bravery, but not to men like this.

"You should know that our island is not always welcoming, this time less than most. You see our galleys? You see the sellswords in the streets? I have no rumors to give you, knight, only tidings of war!" Varyo walked from the room. "Take him. We'll find him quarters on Promise Hill. The Sword of the Morning deserves that at least."

"Tidings I will sadly collect, Velaryon," Ulrich called after him. "I came here for diplomacy, and I will be on my way shortly, by the looks of things. May I have Dawn back? I don't want anybody getting hurt by it, you see."

Varyo motioned to the Sellswords and Ulrich's bonds were released. Dawn was thrust back into the knight's hands. "We'll take bread and salt in my solar. It's only a short ride up to Promise Hill. We may talk of many things knight, and I do give you my word that you shall return to the capital."

"A man with honor, good. I wasn't sure about you when I arrived, but I see you have more sense than your guards. Nevertheless, I look forwards to the food."

The Velaryon motioned for Ser Dayne to follow him, and they left the room.

"It's a queer sort of honor a sellsword and rebel can have. My father named me usurper and traitor. If I had honor then and stood to hear his justice, I would be in dire need of a head." Varyo sighed as they continued on. "Honor and valor are not lost here, but they take on a rather crueler form. You said I have more sense than the guards there. Maybe, but I call it more a luck of birth. A true sense on this island is avoiding death by any means."

"I understand," Ulrich replied with a chuckle, "Death never seems to be the appealing option, does it?"

When they arrived in the solar, the men took seats at the table. Taking a decent slice of the bread, Ulrich sat back in his chair comfortably.

"I have heard of your council held here," the knight began. "Some present were lords of Westeros, some present were mercenary captains. You have a dragon, I'm told, a black one but still a dragon. And black dragons oft want iron chairs to sit upon, history has proven."

He spoke eloquently, his purple eyes intense. "I offer your dragon a chance to rethink this notion. Please, come to court, and he'll be welcomed and treated like any other lord. Even better, declare himself lord or king of the Stepstones and then pledge fealty, adding to the kingdoms of the Iron Throne. I extend the hand of friendship, and hope that you do not reject it. I am flexible, and will gladly listen to your demands."

After he finished talking, he did away with the bread and popped a fig into his mouth.

Varyo raised his voice and the retainers came closer behind the chair. For once there was no nervousness in him, and his mismatched eye were focused.

"You offer us nothing! The chance to live out our days far from our rightful lands, kissing the arse of a foolish king and spilling our blood to defend his new lands! You have seen our island now, would you live on it? I am rightful Lord of Driftmark, yet I sit here whilst another sits my halls." He sat back, looking suddenly resigned. "Anyway, you are too late. The Black Dragon has sailed, and with him sails war." He looked to the retainers. "Place him in the Lord Vault for tonight and bring him supper. I need to work out how we shall proceed."

"My lord, you will not detain me any further," Ulrich said calmly. His eyes were closed, his head tilted, as if thinking. One hand was on Dawn, and the other was on the table. "You will provide me with a small galley, ready to take me back to Westeros. King's Landing, in fact. You know who I am. You know I'm one of the few actually capable of making it out of here. Please, don't make this hard."

Varyo slipped a hand into his halfcloak and stood warily.

"Ser, I have given you bread and salt. Now I provide you with a room, we shall not be sailing until tomorrow. And anyway, maybe you kill my retainers, and of that I would be only half sure. Perhaps you kill me. There are five thousand swords on this island. How in the seven hells do you propose to beat them all?"

Varyo's retainers put their hands on their steel.

"How do I propose to beat all of them? Well, the answer is simple, my lord. I know who I am." Ulrich pointed to his chest. "I am Ser Ulrich Dayne, Knight of the Kingsguard and Sword of the Morning. I fought White Walkers in the Rainwood, I won the Tourney of Harrenhal, and I know who I am. The thing is, Varyo, a lot of your men are Westerosi. I know who I am, but they know who I am, too. Nobody wants to face the Sword of the Morning in battle."

As he spoke, he opened his eyes and they blazed with intricate purple hues. His hand tightened around the hilt of Dawn and he smiled.

Varyo laughed quietly. His eyes flew to his spear at the corner of the room.

"Westerosi men? Your whisperers are obviously less accurate than you would like. I would wager that only one man in ten on this island comes from the Seven Kingdoms. Indeed, in this room you face none born on Westeros."

He indicated his retainers.

"There are two captains of the Maiden's Men here. The one built like a bear is John o'Steel, hailing from Skagos. He was a survivor of a hundred battles when you were still a squire, and he would happily eat your flesh once he buries his steel in it. The fatter one is the Cut Lord, he was trained in Norvos in axe craft. You Dornish would surely know of them. And the man with the arahk is my loyal Rhaevo, trained in Lys in the house of Lohko. You would do well to be careful, Ser, even Dawn cannot stand to us all at once."

"And may I say, what a pleasure it is to meet such fine gentlemen," Ulrich responded. "Now, I've decided I'm to retire from the dinner table. I'm afraid I'll be late, and I have a ship to catch."

He stood from the table casually, and tucked his chair under it as if he were at home. Turning his head, he faced John o'Steel.

"Skagosi, eh? You're a long, long way from home."

Turning to the man with the arahk, he extended his hand, offering a handshake. Rhaevo didn't accept it.

"Ah, Lys," he said wistfully. "It's more known for its whorehouses than its warriors, wouldn't you think?"

Finally, he greeted the Cut Lord with a bow.

"My lord, I must apologize. I don't seem to remember whether you are actually a lord of somewhere or not. Maybe the black Dragon has promised you a castle. I bet you're getting tired of waiting for it."

Smiling, he stepped towards the door.

Varyo pulled out a small glass vial from his half-cloak.

"I gave you my word you shall return, but you won't be leaving until the morrow, Ser."

John o'Steel smiled a vicious grin.

"You might have some fancy sword," the man spat in a low growl, "But word is even a Stark boy can equal you. You want to taste death here? Go ahead."

"Right then," Ulrich nodded, "I guess we have that settled."

He turned back to the table, and picked another fig from the bowl. With his other hand, he grabbed a knife and spun, thrusting it into the left eye of the Lyscene man, who screamed a blood-curdling cry before crumpling to the floor.

The Skagosi was on the other side of the table, and so Ulrich turned to the Lord Cutter. The fat man heaved his massive axe in a two-handed overhead sweep, and Ulrich grabbed his wooden chair as a shield. The axe embedded itself in the seat, and he yanked it from his hands by pulling the chair away. Spinning, he dropped the broken remains, unsheathed Dawn, and cut through two of the fat man's chins. He fell to the floor, throat slit.

Whilst Ulrich turned himself into a melee nightmare, Varyo ran at his back. He smashed the bottle in the proud knight's face.

Pain shot through Ulrich's body. The liquid fizzed and burned on his face, smelling like cloves, and smoke and death. Slowly it became impossible for Ulrich to move his body, and darkness gathered on his field of vision.

Varyo flew to Rhaevo as soon as he could. The dying retainer tried to speak some last words and the spymaster's eyes filled with tears.

"Noble Ser, you would do well to educate yourself on the other Lyscene great profession," Varyo choked out between tears, addressing the paralyzed knight. "As it is, you have just killed my oldest friend under my roof."

He stood over the prone body of his friend, his proud Velaryon blue stained with the blood of the man who half raised him.

He called for help and four more Sellswords entered the room.

"I gave you Guest Right, oathbreaker! I guaranteed your safety! Guards, take him to the Golden Cell, we shall give him to the Bolton."

He left the room, heavy with sorrow.

"And throw that damned sword in the sea."

**- THE LORD COMMANDER -**

The Tumblestone and the Redfork met in cavalcade of churning water at the ancestral seat of House Tully. When Hoster closed his eyes he could still see the swirling gray waters from the top of the Wheel Tower and hear the great waterwheel within groaning and creaking.

"_Bend the knee!"_ the man had said and Hoster could hear his voice, too.

The rivers, the pinnacle, the covered parapet walk, and the moat - he could see them all in his mind's eye, spread out before him beneath heavy, rain laden clouds streaked across a gray sky. A man in plate armor, the shine of a steel blade, a squalling infant dangled by its ankle out over the landscape below. So long ago, but the images came unbidden to his memory with painful clarity.

He thought for a moment that he even felt the raindrops against his face, but it was only snow. Light flurries were being whipped about by the wind and the fires in their blackened braziers along the top of the Wall did little against the bite of the cold.

_The North has its own kind of winter_, Hoster thought. He had seen the roof of his family's keep sagging beneath three feet of snow. He had seen the Godswood covered in a thick white blanket of it, icicles hanging off the spindly branches of the Weirwood. He had seen the Water Gate clogged with chunks of floating ice, but he had never truly felt the grasp of winter until he came to the Wall.

"_Bend!"_

He could feel the hard ground beneath him, cold stone against his bloody knees. The battle had been so short for a siege that lasted so long.

_I traded one castle for another, _the Lord Commander thought, then corrected himself bitterly. _No, I _lost_ one castle._

Castle Black was not Riverrun. It held no warmth, not from the laughter of women and children nor from any of the dozen hearths.

From atop the wall, he could see from Whitetree to the Fist of the First Men. He could see Frostfangs and Giant's Stairs, he could feel snowfall and blistering winds. It had been a long time since he had been up here.

"And now his Watch is ended," he softly spoke, a mixture of a sob and a whisper, and he threw himself off the Wall.

**- TYREK -**

Damon Lannister dismounted outside the Lion's Mouth, tired and filthy from travel.

The gate to the great stone fortress of Casterly Rock was almost as impressive as the castle itself. Lannisport was famed for its goldwork and with its gilded spire, gold leaf, and intricately carved etchings set into the thick beige stone, the castle's gate house was as much a work of art as it was a line of defense.

The gate earned its name not only for the sigil of the family who held the fortress but also for the very rock itself into which their castle was carved. Those sailing into the harbor of Lannisport who looked up at the monstrous cliff could faintly make out the shape of a lion, sitting proud and resplendent with two giant paws placed firmly in the Sunset Sea.

The Gold Road was less safe than Damon and his company had expected, likely due to increased traffic from the tournament at Harrenhal. On the bright side, if they brought a few bandit heads to Casterly Rock, his father couldn't say they came home empty handed.

He dismissed the help who came to meet the party at the gate house, opting to take his horse to the stable himself. The sun hung low and pale in the bleak gray sky, but whatever dusting of snow had fallen in the last week was melted already and the wind's bite was not so fierce. Winter had been rather mild in the West, and Damon in his lifetime had never seen the dune grass buried under heavy drifts of fluffy white snow or fishermen standing at the prows of their boats using long wooden poles to break up chunks of ice in their paths.

A sandy haired child dusted off his pants and stood clumsily as Lord Loren's son approached. He straightened his shoulders and tried to stand a little bit taller as he accepted the reins with a "M'lord."

"Tyrek Hill," Damon greeted him with a smile, "your station has improved since I saw you last."

The boy grinned. "They said I could work in the stables now, m'lord. They said you asked it of them."

He led the horse by the reins into one of the stalls with Damon following behind him. The two began undoing the straps and buckles on the saddle together, the Lannister with the deftness that came from years of practice and Tyrek with the uncertainty of someone who had until very recently been a cupbearer.

"Yes, well, you said you'd like to learn to ride someday, if I recall," Damon watched the boy attempt to remove the saddle, pulling on the fender and trying to slide it from the horse's back. It was likely twice his own weight, and Damon intervened just as it was about to fall. "Careful now, you will crush yourself. Slide it like this. You don't want to scuff the cantle."

"I did say that, m'lord," the boy replied breathlessly, struggling with the weight of the saddle. "Thank you, m'lord."

"What news from the Rock?" Damon removed his leather gloves and slapped them against his pant leg, trying to remove some of the dust from the road.

The boy set the weighty saddle aside and stood on tiptoe to reach the blanket. It was cut from soft cloth of a deep scarlet hue and probably worth more than a month's worth of his wages. He folded it with great care and almost reverence, pulling corner to corner tightly as the stablemaster had shown him.

"Troops have been moving 'bout, m'lord," he said. "Thousands left Lannisport. Don't know where they're headed."

Had he still been a cupbearer he might have heard more about troop movements, but now bits and pieces of information came to the boy from the stable workers and the kennel master. Lenn, Yorkel, Bald Beck, and Imry weren't as refined as those he had attended to inside the castle, but they were looser with their tongues and the boy had already learned from the laborers a great deal more about the lords and ladies whose wine he used to pour than he ever did from the subjects themselves.

He could occasionally hear snippets from conversations between important knights or soldiers when he met them by the gatehouse to take their mounts, but they never came into the stables themselves and so his interaction with nobles became rather limited. The boy didn't mind. His mother once told him that even trueborn people could be bastards and that a lord's son was in fact more likely than any other to be a "miscreant and insufferable little ass."

The boy set the blanket aside and picked up a curry comb. When he turned back around, Damon Lannister was unfastening the cloak from his shoulders. It was once a deep crimson red, but now like his high leather boots and splendid Lannister armor was stained with mud, dirt, and blood.

The boy noticed the blood and his face lit up excitedly. "A battle, m'lord?" he asked hopefully.

"No, I'm afraid not," Damon replied with a smile, "Just bandits."

Damon balled the cloak up and shoved it under his arm and the boy's gaze flew to the sword at the man's hip. A real sword, castle forged steel no doubt, and probably almost as difficult for the child to lift as the saddle. It was strange to think that someone as affable as the Warden's son had swung it to kill but the boy knew that bandits were the lowest sort of people - cutthroats, thieves, and rapists, and the duty fell to knights and noblemen to keep the rest of them safe from such unsavory folk.

He realized belatedly that he had been staring, but when he looked back up at the man's face, Damon was still smiling bemusedly.

"Tell your mother I said hello," he said with a wink before leaving.

The boy brought the comb to the horse's flank and watched him go.

**- THE STORMLORD -**

Griffin's Roost, the seat of House Connington, was a castle located between Storm's End and Crow's Nest in the Stormlands on a lofty crag jutting out from the shores of Cape Wrath. Red stone cliffs surrounded the holdfast on three sides, which descended into the stormy waters of Shipbreaker Bay. The land-facing approach was a long natural ridge called the Griffin's Throat, and its entrance was guarded on one end by a gatehouse and by the castle's main gate and two round towers on the other end.

Salos Seaworth sat in the main parlor drumming his fingers against the table, waiting for his host. He was oddly calm for being, as simply as it could be put, a complete and total traitor to the realm.

_In good company, however, _he thought, sighing and he grew increasingly impatient.

Orys Connington swung open the door to the parlor with one great hand. His traveling garments were gone, replaced by simple leather with the Connington Griffins emblazoned over his chest. His usually tidy red beard had been allowed to grow a bit, giving his face the appearance of recently being set on fire.

"Tell me, Lord Seaworth," he said in his rough, deep voice, skipping any pleasantries as he strode over to the table and picked up the jug of ale that sat atop it. "Have you ever been to Storm's End?"

Salos looked up and his eyes landed on the crest on Orys' chest. He gave a simple nod and ceased the drumming of his fingers. He gave no expression as he replied to Lord Orys.

"Lord Orys," he muttered. "I have indeed been to the ancestral seat of the Baratheons. Many a time in fact, as a loyal lord sworn to my liege."

Orys poured himself a mug of ale and set the pitcher and the cup both back down. He took off his gloves and threw them onto the table as well before seating himself across from the Onion Lord.

"It's a magnificent sight to behold, is it not? A single tower, twice as large as this entire castle and infinitely more defensible, truly a seat worthy of its name."

Orys picked up the mug of ale again and drank deeply from it, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve when he finished. Salos watched with silent displeasure.

"I'm looking forward to moving there," Orys said. "Too many bad memories here, and I'd rather live in a place more befitting of my coming title."

Orys waved to a serving girl and she came scurrying with a plate of bacon, setting it down before the Connington.

"Aye, your new title," Savos spoke, his words tinged with barely concealed distaste.

Orys grinned at that and leaned over to pour another mug of ale which he pushed across the table to the lord.

"A lord loyal to his Baratheon liege, you called yourself," Orys said, still smiling. "Too few of those, these days, it seems. And what liege sits in Storm's End now? Joseph Baratheon sits on the small council as our realm's Master of Laws. His son Patrek is off seeking glory and adventure," he waved his hand about when he said that, rolling his eyes, "as a hedge knight like the stories he read as a boy. Who does that leave in the keep of our great lord paramount? His castellan? His _brave_ and _valiant_ little brother Cleos?"

His words were clearly sarcasm. The youngest of the Baratheon brothers, Cleos hardly resembled any of his great ancestors. He was a scrawny lad with a pale face and arms as thin as twigs and bones as brittle as kindling. His meek nature made him a source for mocking by others in the Stormlands, but as the King's youngest brother such japes were made into the bottom of cups and never in the presence of another Baratheon.

Orys took a few bites of bacon before looking up at his guest.

"I'm sorry, that's so rude of me." He turned back to the serving girl, "Bring him a plate too, and whatever else he wants. You know," Orys moved his eyes back to Salos', "You're really coming out of all this quite nicely. Once this is all done, I'm going to give you your castle back and let you keep your children - well, most of them at least, save for those who will be warded at Storm's End."

Savos clenched his jaw at those words but remained silent.

"We don't have to be enemies. I know you're probably mad at me, and rightfully so, but I want you on my side. This whole loss of land and taking you as an 'honored guest,' it's all just a show. I didn't want to do it, but it was what was expected of me. A smart man like yourself understands that, I'm sure. You and the others who back the winning side will enjoy all the spoils to come once it's finished."

He reached for his mug and washed down the bacon with another swig of ale.

Salos ignored the food and drink. "You understand my hesitation to trust you, my lord. Committing treason is not something I take lightly. You've taken my castle, yes, and my children. I could still refuse to bend, and let you slaughter us all. The other storm lords would see me as a martyr and use my death as fuel for their cause."

Salos looked around the room, taking in the Griffins and other decorations.

"Or I could do as you ask - bend my knee, and let the other Baratheon vassals see that House Connington has support. Perhaps such an act would even sway others to your cause. That is what you are counting on, is it not? Obviously, the right choice is death, but you sit before a man who wants to live. War is coming. Men must hedge their bets and I intend to back a winner."

"Aye," the Griffin nodded.

A sudden chill swept through the room as a cold breeze blew in from an open window.

"The lion has awoken," Orys said, leaning forward with a wicked grin framed by his fiery beard, "And he is stalking his prey."

**- DAMON -**

"Hello, Jate," Damon greeted the guard cheerfully as he approached the doors to the Great Hall in Casterly Rock. They were twice as tall as a man, made of heavy oak and banded with blackened iron. The stone archway that framed them was ornate, with gold inlaid in the murals carved into it - a torrent of rain falling against a broken holdfast, soldiers fighting in thick reeds and knee deep water, a lion feasting on the throat of a fallen doe.

"You're late."

The young soldier was standing dutifully with his sword sheathed in an unornamented scabbard at his hip and a red cloak draped across the leather armor on his chest and over one shoulder. He had been stationed there for hours, and his legs felt stiff.

"I believe you meant 'Hello, Damon,'" the heir replied. "'Good to see you, Damon. I'm not still mad about that bet, Damon, you won fair and square, Damon.' That's what you meant, isn't it?" he grinned.

The guard would have rolled in his eyes normally and retorted back with some lame excuse about weighted dice, but instead he shifted nervously and threw a glance over his shoulder at the heavy set of oaken doors behind him.

"Your lord father is inside. You know how he hates to be kept waiting."

Damon studied his friend's face curiously, wondering why he was behaving so oddly. "What's come over you, Jate? You act as though someone's fucked your sister."

There was a sudden clatter from inside the room and then the faint sound of distant laughter and chattering voices. Jate shuffled his feet awkwardly and glanced at the floor as Damon frowned.

"How many people has he got in there?" he asked the guard, looking at him confusedly. "I thought this was to be just the two of us. Please don't tell me that my aunt is visiting…"

Jate looked apologetic, but only shrugged weakly before turning and pushing open the great big doors.

The din from inside died down as the lords and ladies present noticed the heir to Casterly Rock standing framed in the threshold, looking rather surprised to find the room so filled. There were men and women from various Westerlands houses, and Damon recognized most of them by sight. Rollam Westerling, Peter Plumm, Addam Spicer, Robin Lorch, Clarent Payne...

A feast appeared to be well underway. Cups of chilled Arbor Gold and Dornish Red sat upon the table surrounded by roast mutton, quail, and fish from the Sunset Sea. Torches blazed in their sconces, casting a warm light of gold and red flickering over the table, and filling the Great Hall with warmth.

"Damon, so good of you to join us," Lord Loren Lannister called across the hall. "I trust you brought House Lannister honor in the joust?" The lone voice rang out in the quiet chamber.

A stranger was seated beside him, the most beautiful woman that Damon had ever laid eyes on. Shining white blonde tresses were pinned back behind a pale and comely face with a silver jeweled clip fashioned into the shape of a three headed dragon, and a pair of violet eyes shone like amethyst crystals in the light of the torches. Her gown was flowing black silk, darker than obsidian, with long crimson sleeves that draped over her arms.

"My lord." Damon bowed and looked up at his father suspiciously. "I was not aware you were hosting a feast. Forgive my tardiness."

"I've forgiven your tardiness before, Damon." Loren waved wearily for Damon to take a seat. His son crossed the room hesitantly and the conversations started back up again as the guests returned to their food and drink. When the son reached the table where his father sat, Loren gestured to the woman at his side.

"May I introduce Lady Aeslyn of the House Targaryen."

Damon stepped forward and bowed, taking her small hand in his and kissing it politely. While from afar her amethyst eyes seemed to glitter playfully, up close he noticed a certain chill to them - unnerving, but incredibly mesmerizing.

"Lady Aeslyn, it is an honor to be in the company of a dragon."

She smiled sweetly as he took her hand and the apples of her cheeks seemed to become a little rosier.

"My lord," she replied, "The pleasure is mine."

Damon glanced at his father confusedly. "I thought that you and I were having supper," he said.

"And we are." Loren tilted his head in the direction of the empty chair at his right. "Sit."

Damon looked hesitantly from Aeslyn to his father before obeying, taking the empty seat.

"Now that the pleasantries are out of the way," the Lord of Casterly Rock picked up the decanter of wine that sat on the table and moved it out of the reach of his son. "Damon, Lady Aeslyn comes to us with an interesting proposition. You are of yet unmarried, and the Targaryen family wishes to expand its list of allies."

His son stirred uncomfortably.

"The two of you are to be married. Tonight."

"I'm sorry," the heir tensed at those words. "I am somewhat weary from travel and I don't think I heard you correctly, father. Come again?"

"Don't play the fool, Damon." Loren's eyes were hard. "You are three and twenty, heir to Casterly Rock. I grow old, Damon. Soon enough the lordship will pass to you, and I will not see you squander it. You will be wed tonight, and that's final."

Damon looked down at the table, avoiding his father's icy stare. "Very well, then. I will do what you say."

"Good." Loren turned to the Targaryen beside him. "Lady Aeslyn, if you will excuse me, I will make the necessary arrangements."

Lord Loren stood abruptly and headed for the great doors to the hall while the other lords and ladies continued their eating and gossiping. He paused for a moment in the threshold and spoke to two Lannister guards in a low voice, looking over his shoulder at his oldest son.

Aeslyn turned her violet eyes to the Lannister heir, reaching across the table and grasping his hand.

"Damon, it would be an honor to be your wife."

He forced a smile, though it came out as more of a grimace. Damon very much wanted to bolt from the room. He could be at the stables and on a horse headed for the docks within the hour; he could catch a ship to Essos and hide across the narrow sea. Instead, he didn't skip a beat with his polite response.

"My lady, I am certain the honor would be mine."

**- SARELLA -**

Sarella Martell inhaled deeply.

The aromas of flowers from the gardens - orchids, smokeberries, and dragon's breath - filled the stifling air in the Old Palace at Sunspear and she breathed them in as she walked between the rows of Sandbeggar trees.

She had felt restless since returning to Dorne. Her father had holed himself up in his solar, holding council meetings that he did not see fit to invite her to.

_If I am to rule in his stead one day, he needs to begin letting me participate in these sort of things, _she thought with a frown.

She wandered through the palace until she reached a balcony overlooking the practice yard just outside the armory, where a few young men were sparring. She placed her hands on the balcony rail and watched them jealously.

Martyn Dayne was in the yard, practicing with his greatsword. After launching a flurry of strikes and rolling to the left of an imaginary opponent's attack, Martyn stopped to wipe the sweat off his brow, looking up and noticing Sarella. He bowed low to her.

"Princess, I did not see you there. How was King's Landing? I had hoped to see you and your father at Harrenhal, but sadly you were not there."

"Lord Dayne!" Sarella called down with a smile. "I hope my spectating does not interfere with your practice. King's Landing was lovely. Well, the palace at least," she clarified. "I was able to talk with your brother for a time. It is good to see him doing so well in his station."

She debated whether she should mention that Ser Ulrich seemed unhappy, and decided against it.

"I was sorry to miss the tourney. If you would regale me with stories of the games, I would be most grateful. Tell me, is that a new blade you have?"

She leaned over the railing curiously.

Martyn smiled, glad to have a chance to talk about his new blade. "The blade is new, yes, and castle forged. It is thinner and lighter than most greatswords, so that I do not lose speed and still have great range. As for the tourney, Ulrich won the joust, defeating Jojen Stark in the finale, but injuring him in the process. The melee was quite spectacular. Ulrich battled Thaddius Lannister and it was a fight for the ages. I myself managed to beat the young Ser Clegane and Ser Valaeryn Yronwood in the joust before losing to Damon Lannister."

Martyn sheathed his sword and slung it across his back, then took off his helmet and combed his hair back with his hand. "There was also a female sellsword who did quite well; I believe her name was Morgane Sand."

"You don't say!" Sarella raised an eyebrow. "It is no wonder then that father sought her out as a protector for me." She glanced about to see if the sellsword was leaning against a wall nearby. "He thinks I can't handle myself," she added, annoyed. "But that's hardly a surprise. If he could keep me at the Water Gardens until my fiftieth nameday, he would."

"Oh, how I would've loved to see you and your brother fight," she sighed. "I bet it was spectacular, indeed. I heard of the battle of Rainwood. They say it was an army of White Walkers, larger than giants and more numerous than the host of Casterly Rock! I heard Ulrich killed a bear the size of a mammoth and you yourself burned an entire castle to the ground with nothing but a single jar of wildfire."

She suddenly blushed, embarrassed. Repeating the rumors and whispers she heard of the Battle of Rainwood aloud, she heard how preposterous they sounded.

Martyn only chuckled, amused at the Princess' naivety. "The White Walkers were few and no bigger than an Umber. Ulrich did kill a bear, but it was normal sized. As to the wildfire, there was none of that, I'm afraid." Martyn noticed Sarella blushing, and quickly changed the subject, trying to avoid awkwardness. "I'm sure your father is just trying to protect you. You mean a lot to him, and are his only heir. Have you asked Morgane to teach you anything about swordsmanship? I'm sure he would rest safer if he knew you could protect yourself even if she isn't around."

"You know, I couldn't agree more," she smiled playfully. "As for Morgane, father is paying her to watch over me. I'm afraid she'd be out of a job if he caught her spending her bought time crossing blades with me."

She gazed down at the young Dayne. "Say, Lord Martyn, could I have a look at your greatsword? I've never seen castle forged steel up close before."

Without waiting for a reply, she put her hands on the balcony railing and swung her tanned legs over its side, first one and then the other. She paid no mind to her dress or the view she was giving the courtyard below as she scrambled over the ledge of the balcony, shuffled along the outside of the railing, and found a place to climb down into the practice yard.

Martyn forced himself to look away from her slender legs, reminding himself that he was a lord sworn to her father. He slung his sword off his back and unsheathed it when she arrived at his side. "Be careful, the edges are incredibly sharp, a simple touch could cut you," he said as he handed it to Sarella.

Sarella accepted the blade gingerly, gasping quietly at the shining metal as it caught the rays of the Dornish sun. She turned it over in her hands carefully. The greatsword was almost as tall as she was.

"It's beautiful!" Her eyes lit up with excitement.

She took one last look at the blade before handing it back to Martyn delicately.

"It's a wonderful weapon," she told him. "I know you'll wield it with grace."

Martyn beamed. "Thank you, I will try my best. I have been trying to come up with a name for it, and my master at arms suggested Tempest, after the wind and storm. What do you think?" he said as he accepted the sword back. He hoped she didn't laugh at the suggestion, as he had actually come up with it himself but was too embarrassed to say so.

"Tempest," Sarella murmured, repeating the name aloud, her brow furrowed in thought. "A fine name for the sword of a Dornish warrior. I wish I could wield a weapon half as well as you do," she lamented.

"I'm glad you like it." Martyn's eyes sparkled with joy, glad that Sarella approved. "I could teach you some things if you like." He looked Sarella up and down, trying to decide on what weapon and fighting style would suit her best.

"You would? I - I would love that, Martyn!"

Martyn was lost in thought for another moment, then looked up. "Ah, yes of course. I'm thinking a spear would suit you well. I have some experience with it and can teach you the basics. The spear is for quick and lithe warriors; it is about speed and agility, not strength. Footwork is as important as skill with the spear. What do you think?"

Sarella grinned. "My only question is when can we start?"

"Right now."

Martyn pushed Sarella, causing her to stumble backwards. "Lesson one - footwork and movement. You have to be steady on your feet. If you fall, you're dead. If you stumble, you're dead. If you let someone sweep your feet, you're dead."

His voice was commanding, yet gentle as well. Martyn placed one foot slightly farther forward than the other and leaned forward. "This is the stance you want. Try pushing me over."

Sarella tried, but Martyn didn't even shift his feet.

"Now you try."

Sarella mimicked Martyn's stance, and when Martyn pushed her this time, she didn't move.

"Good. Now you have to learn to move in this position. Come out of it and your opponent will take advantage and you'll be dead. Always keep your body towards your opponent. Move one foot at a time. Never even think about moving your head, it is what keeps your balance intact. I'm your opponent. Go!"

Martyn, unarmed, started to walk around Sarella, inspecting her stance, impressed with her quick progress and smooth movements. Quick as a snake Martyn softly tapped Sarella on her neck. "You're dead. Work on your speed and moving in this position until you can run in it, leap and land in it, roll and stand up in it. Tomorrow, I'll teach you how to use a spear."

Sarella grinned. "The Lord of Starfall is teaching the Princess of Dorne how to fight like a warrior."

She beamed with excitement. In truth, she was a bit more excited about the idea of spending more time with handsome Martyn than she was about learning how to wield a weapon.

She reached out and squeezed his hand, "Thank you, Martyn," she said, her smile soft. She allowed her grip to linger, locking her eyes with his own, before releasing his hand and turning to leave the courtyard.

She called over her shoulder, "I will see you here tomorrow, then!"

**- AESLYN -**

The feast in the Great Hall had only grown since Lord Loren's departure and several additional courses were served before he returned again. Arbor Gold and Dornish Red flowed steadily from three large casks and no lord's chalice stood empty for long, especially not Damon Lannister's.

The heir to Casterly Rock and Aeslyn Targaryen sat at the head of the table, conversing for the first time. Or at least, Aeslyn _tried _to converse with her soon to be husband. Damon seemed to find his cup more interesting, as he poured himself drink after drink while the steady hum of voices filled the air and mixed with the sounds of musicians and singers alike.

"Have you ever been to a wedding, my lord?" Aeslyn asked, placing a smooth pale hand over his.

He didn't draw away but nor did he look at her as he nodded sullenly, staring longingly towards the doors.

She glanced at her lap for a moment, wondering what she was doing wrong that he seemed so uninterested in her. Aeslyn turned heads everywhere she went, and she was unaccustomed to wanting for a man's attention.

"Are you nervous, my lord?" she asked, her smile faltering. She spoke her next words with hesitancy, and her cheeks reddened. "I am a bit nervous, myself, mostly for what comes, well, _after_ the vows are spoken..."

Damon looked over at her with a confused frown but before he could reply, Lord Loren Lannister's voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, drawing the attention of all those present and quickly bringing the room to silence.

"My lords and ladies," he called. "Damon Lannister and Aeslyn Targaryen will now rise for the exchanging of the cloaks."

He approached the table where his son and soon-to-be daughter sat, two cloaks draped over an arm. Aeslyn stood gracefully as he walked towards them, the folds of her scarlet silk gown cascading towards the floor. Damon nearly knocked over his chalice when he rose to his feet, but caught the cup quickly and straightened it on the table.

Casterly Rock had a Sept and marriages were generally made between the statue of the Mother and the Father, but as a short, shriveled man in long grey robes carrying a wooden staff came hobbling along behind Lord Loren, it became apparent that the ceremony was to take place right there in the Great Hall.

"Does he think I'm going to run?" Aeslyn thought she heard Damon mutter, glancing at the guards flanking the doors.

Loren handed the heir one of the cloaks from his arm, a magnificent, flowing piece made of soft lamb's wool dyed a deep red. Upon the cloak was emblazoned the sigil of House Lannister, a lion roaring proudly in all its golden glory.

"The cloak of House Lannister," Loren presented solemnly, "Passed down through our family for generations. And for you, Lady Aeslyn, to replace the cloak of your father which we presently lack." Turning, he presented Aeslyn with the second cape, silk of a deep obsidian upon which had been hurriedly stitched the sigil of House Targaryen.

The two fastened the cloaks around their necks, Damon in Lannister red and Aeslyn in pure black, and the Septon shooed them hurriedly from their places until they stood in front of the table.

"As Lady Aeslyn has no relatives in attendance, Ser Eddrick Lannet will be removing her cloak for the ceremony," Loren stated.

Ser Eddrick stepped forward, a portly man dressed in his best. The ladies and lords of the hall tittered as he undid the cloak from around Aeslyn's neck and then returned to his seat, flashing Aeslyn an apologetic smile on the way.

As per tradition, Damon unwrapped the one from about his shoulders and Aeslyn turned, allowing him to fasten it around her own. The cloak of red and gold flashed as he tied the clasp and Aeslyn turned proudly, purple irises glittering in the torchlight as she gazed into Damon's eyes and said, "With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband."

"With this kiss, I pledge my love," Damon replied, glancing hesitantly at his father, "and take you for my lady and wife." He leaned forward, and the two kissed.

The septon raised his staff and cried out, "Here in the sight of gods and men, I do solemnly proclaim Damon of House Lannister and Aeslyn of House Targaryen to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

_"Now off to be bedded!"_ A shout called out from amongst the lords and ladies, and the cry was soon taken up by the rest of the hall. _"Off to be bedded!"_

Men swarmed up to Aeslyn and women to Damon, poking and prodding them off towards their bedding chamber, clothing and jokes flying as they made their way there.

Once the doors closed and the yelling and shouting finally faded away, the newly named Aeslyn Lannister stood in the moonlight that spilled through the window of the dark bedchamber; her supple pale skin somehow became even paler within the night's glow. Nervously, she peeked over her shoulder at the man who had just become her husband.

_What do I do...?_ she thought to herself as she stood there awkwardly with her back to him. She weighed whether she should go to him, or if she should turn around and uncover herself with her hands and show him what he had claim to for the rest of their lives.

She began to tremble as she grew cold and she finally turned around to face him. Her hands remained covering her breasts, her nipples hardening beneath her hand and arm, as her other hand stayed guardedly over her womanhood.

"Da- my lord...?" Her voice trembled when she spoke, barely above a whisper. She looked into his eyes, then her gaze slowly began to drift down his naked body. She had never seen a man nude in her life.

Butterflies in her stomach began to flutter and she felt the tug of desire. She wanted him to touch her, but she didn't know how to make him do so. Instead, she stood there awkwardly in front of him, like a scared girl who was about to bed for the first time.

She felt his gaze fall over every inch of her body, from her toes to the top of her head, where her long white hair somehow managed to remain mostly pinned back - albeit sloppily now - during the traditional bedding ceremony, when the lords in attendance had torn the rest of her clothing from her body.

And with what eagerness they did so. No one in any of the Seven Kingdoms or all of Essos would deny the Lady Targaryen's beauty. As the young Lannister heir drank in the curves of her slender and lithe body, his anxieties about their sudden and surprise marriage and the schemes of his father began to melt away into something else, something more urgent, a feeling more primal - lust.

He took a few steps forward slowly, until he stood just inches from his bride. Without moving his eyes from her body, Damon lifted his hand and took her left one in his own, gently moving it to her side, so that she was no longer covering her breasts. She shivered at his touch and goosebumps formed on her smooth white skin. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing, which was becoming less and less even with every passing second. He stepped closer and leaned down to press his forehead against her own.

Aeslyn was silent, still covering her womanhood protectively with her other hand. Damon could hear her breathing, even over the faint sounds of music and merriment from the wedding feast carrying on without them, nearby. Continuing to press her arm against her side, he moved swiftly to her other hand, grasping her by the wrist. When he went to pull it away, she hesitated a moment and her arm stiffened. He paused and looked up, his emerald eyes locking with her own. Without breaking eye contact, he tugged at her hand again, this time more forcefully, and she relented. He pinned both her arms at her side, leaving her naked body completely exposed.

Damon gazed down at her figure and sighed. In the torchlight of the wedding feast, her skin was the color of the flesh of an apple. Now, naked and shivering in his bedchamber, her body was paler than the the glow of the moon that softly illuminated the room.

Keeping his forehead still pressed against her own, he let go of her arms and lifted one hand to brush a loose piece of hair from her delicate face. His other hand found her jeweled hair clip and tugged it out gently, sending waves of silvery white tresses tumbling down her back.

"You're cold," he told her, rubbing his thumb against her arm gently, feeling the telltale prickles of a chill. The fine white hair on her arms stood up. She appeared so small it seemed as though he could wrap his fingers around her entire arm and have them meet on the other side.

"I can fix that," he promised. He wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her suddenly against his body, then took her mouth with his own.

When at long last she broke away from his lips, she pressed her forehead to his once again. Her voice was quiet and shook as she spoke. "Damon, I ask you please be careful with me. Will you tell me what I should do...?"

"My lady, I will try to be gentle." She was surprised to see him grinning now, a mischievous glint in his green eyes. He hoisted her up off the ground and held her against him. She was as light as a feather in his arms and felt as comfortable to hold as the hilt of his sword.

"I won't need to tell you what to do," he murmured. He kissed all along her collarbone, then up to her jaw line, and finally found her mouth again, when he pulled away suddenly. He looked into her deep purple eyes and saw that they were clouded with desire, anticipation, and a bit of fear.

_So the dragon has become a lamb…_

"You will know what to do," he assured her with a sly smile.

Damon turned and carried Aeslyn over to the great four post bed in the center of the room and set her down gingerly atop the many linens and furs. The bedchamber was decked in the finest furniture and decor that the gold of House Lannister could buy. Heavy crimson drapes framed the giant windows and delicately embroidered tapestries depicting springtime scenes decorated the stone walls. No torches were lit, but the moonlight sufficed. A breeze blew in through the open windows and caused the young Targaryen to shiver.

Damon knelt on all fours over his bride, gazing down at her nubile body. Flat on her back, her now tangled hair splayed out beneath her head, contrasting with the burgundy silk sheets on the bed. He traced a finger carefully from just beneath her chin, down her throat, along her chest between the mounds of her breasts. He could feel her heart thumping in her chest. He paused for a minute and smiled at her, then continued over her stomach, finally arriving between her legs.

Aeslyn gasped and shuddered as his hand reached her womanhood, arching her back beneath him. Damon looked down at her face, pausing for a moment.

"I can't promise this won't hurt," he said, as if to give one final warning, "And once we start, I can't promise that I'll be able to stop."

"Then don't."

She yelped when he entered her, and grasped a fistful of his golden hair in one hand and sank the fingernails of her other into his back. It was more painful than she had anticipated, and she found herself squinting her eyes shut and soon she was counting down the seconds and minutes until it was over. He held her close to his chest and she could feel the warmth of his body as she clung to him tightly, trying to remind herself of the duties of her sex.

_It could be worse. Had my father still lived, who knows who he would have sold me to._

In Westeros, it was not uncommon for a noble woman to be married within a year of her flowering. Aeslyn, however, was almost of an age with her new husband and her marriage was of her own volition, unlike that of so many other highborn women.

_It will get better in time,_ she assured herself. _He will one day become the Warden of the West and the Lord of the wealthiest house in all of Westeros, and I will be its Lady. I will no longer live in shame and exile. I will have power._

Power the Targaryens hadn't seen in centuries, she knew.

_Father thought the redemption of our name lie in Danae, but _I _am the head of our house._

When he finished, Damon released her suddenly and she fell back onto the bed, dizzy and with a throbbing ache between her thighs. Panting heavily, he collapsed on his stomach beside her.

A gust of wind blew through the open window again, disturbing the drapes and rustling some papers scattered on top of a side table, sending them to the floor. She didn't shiver this time. Her body was on fire. Her very blood felt as if it were wildfire.

"You're... bleeding..." Aeslyn told him between her own panting, nodding towards his back, which was covered in small bloody tracks from where she had sank her fingernails.

"So are you," Damon replied, his voice muffled by the sheets he rested his face against.

Aeslyn looked down at her body, her bare chest rising and falling dramatically with every labored breath. Sure enough, her thighs were stained with blood. She gazed over at the man who was now her husband, but he had his face turned away from her. He seemed exhausted, and a slight smile played on her lips as she realized her body had been the cause of his pleasure. Aeslyn gently sidled up to Damon and lifted his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"Damon, I need to speak with you on an urgent matter... It's rather important to me, and it involves my family…"

"Oh?" Damon mumbled sleepily. "Is something wrong?"

"Well… not yet," Aeslyn nestled back into his chest and thought over her next words carefully, "Family can be such a complicated thing…"

"Family is everything," he murmured in response, dreamily repeating a phrase he was told often, untangling himself from her arms and rolling onto his side with a yawn.

"Well, yes…" she said, suddenly cool without the warmth of his body against hers. She drew the furs up to her chin. "And yet at times it can be quite… burdensome. My house is known for its ambitions. Ambition often results in… well, in competition, I suppose. Yes, that's the right word for it."

She listened to his breathing as she stared across the dark room into nothingness. "My dear, sweet sister Danae… she is ambitious indeed. Our father always favored her… He used to call her his little dragon. He never called me such a thing. He lavished all his attention and praise on her, and it went straight to her head. She thinks herself a clever girl. I am the head of House Targaryen, and I see the envy in her eyes. She would scheme my birthright straight from under me…"

Aeslyn paused, as if suddenly realizing his silence.

"Damon?"

She rolled over to face him, only to see that he was fast asleep.

**- ULRICH -**

The guard with the eye-patch drove a rough kick into the ribs of the prisoner, his metal-capped boots winding him. The other guard, the tall one with the Braavosi accent, picked him up by the scruff of his collar and threw him down on the bench in the cell. The knight smashed through the it, and splinters flew everywhere.

He tried to pull himself back to his feet, but another kick to his stomach made him collapse again. Groaning, he spit out some blood as the men dragged him through to another cell, throwing him to the ground inside. The door made horrible creaking noises as it is slammed shut, and he was left on the mucky floor.

Hours passed, and soon enough they fed him. A young Dornishman came in. He could only have been about ten and seven years old. He carried a bowl of soup, and placed it on the desk.

"Sword of the Morning," he said. "My ma would tell us stories of the strength and grace and might of the Sword of the Morning, when I was younger. My brothers lapped it up, them being young when you were given Dawn, yet..."

He went to leave, but paused at the door.

"All I see is a broken man. You've been outclassed, stripped of your armor and Dawn and now...Now you're just a man. Not the hero you're supposed to be."

He left, and shut the door gently. Sitting up, the prisoner placed his head in his hands.

The captive was woken later by the sound of his cell door being opened, and before his eyes even opened he was pulled from the bench he slept on and dragged out of the room. They took him to another chamber with a table with bloodstained strappings on it. His eyes widened, and they threw him to the floor in front of it and then pulled his limp right arm into one of the braces, locking it in place. He couldn't pull his hand out, no matter how he tried, and panic registered on his face as one of the men pulled out flaying tools.

"The Bolton isn't here yet, but we'll get you started for him!" cackled the Bravosi with the tools, while the other man, a Summer Islander, held the arm in place. The knight pulled and pulled, his whole body straining, but he couldn't remove himself from the straps.

The Braavosi started with the smallest finger, the one furthest to the right. The prisoner expected it to be painful, but he hadn't prepared for such agony. He yelled involuntarily and tears streamed from his eyes as the skin on his finger was slowly peeled off.

_The Seven, Rh'llor, the Drowned God, whoever's listening... Please..._ he thought, as he struggled to retain consciousness.

And then, through the salt of his tears and the fiery pain of his finger, he spotted something. A small, sharp, steel dagger dangled from the belt of the Summer Islander. The man's face was scrunched up in concentration as he watched his friend cut away at the knight's flesh. Reaching out with his left hand, the prisoner snatched it from his belt. Before he had time to react, the captive slit his stomach open, slicing through the cloth garb he wore.

He brought the dagger up and plunged it through the hand of the flayer, next. The man screamed, and when the knight pulled the dagger out again he bolted to the door, clutching his bleeding hand. He was able to shout for the guards but by the time the words escaped his throat, the captive cut had through his straps. He threw the dagger in his direction and it embedded itself in his back. The man slumped to the floor.

The prisoner could hear the guardsmen running up the stairway towards him, and so he turned and fled. He ran up the tower, further and further up the stairs until he reached the top. Nowhere to go, the guards at his back, he desperately stuck his head out the window, wishing for water below him. Looking down, he saw only stone.

_Only death._

His mind raced. He tried to formulate a plan for escape, but dark thoughts crept into his head.

_What is the point? Dawn lies at the bottom of the sea. A Black Dragon will sit the Iron Throne, and those who would call me hero are now scattered to the wind, all because I was too stupid, too brash, too headstrong… all because I came here... I am the worst Sword of the Morning there ever was. I have failed._

He gazed down at the stones that awaited him below.

_Only death._

**- THE DRAGON AT THE WALL -**

The news spread throughout the Watch like wildfire. Lord Commander Tully was dead, after having jumped from the Wall. His black brothers held a funeral, like they had held for so many others, without a body. Balon Selmy acted as the primary speaker for the man who took him in and taught him what it meant to be a man of the Night's Watch.

"...He was a good Lord Commander," he was saying somewhat awkwardly. Balon was never great with words, and he tugged nervously at the collar of his heavy woolen coat. "Taught me everything he knew, he did. He was a gentle man and an honorable one. He always had a warm smile and an even warmer bowl of corn soup for anyone who knocked at his chamber doors, no matter the hour. Of course, his cooking wasn't exactly rivaling that of any nobleman's kitchen, heh," he gave an uncomfortable laugh, and a few of the men standing vigil at the service managed weak smiles.

"Well, um, I suppose that he will be missed greatly, and uh, remembered by all," he managed to stammer before bowing his head and adding somberly. "And now his Watch has ended."

The brothers replied in unison, "And now his watch has ended."

Snow fell seemingly without interruption in the week that followed. The roof on the stable sagged and some of the more nimble boys were instructed to climb atop and clear it off before the whole thing collapsed. Horses and mules were precious to the watch, especially during the winter when the paths grew too slick for a man's boots.

A fire was burning in the hearth when the crows met in the Shield Hall of Castle Black to elect a new Lord Commander. A few names had already been put forth, including that of the First Ranger, when the doors to the hall were flung open and a tardy Rhaegar Targaryen strode in.

"And now his watch has ended," Rhaegar declared to no one in particular, " And a new era is beginning."

A few of the men nodded their greetings to the silver haired crow; others rolled their eyes. The men of the Watch seemed almost evenly divided in their opinions of the Targaryen. There hadn't been a dragon at the Wall in two hundred years, and while sworn brothers gave up their titles and house names, there was no mistaking Rheagar's heritage.

He was dashing like all Targaryens and arrogant, too. From the way he spoke to the way he carried himself, Rhaegar reminded everyone around him that he was cut from a different cloth than any thief or rapist or bastard. Some men, young boys especially, were impressed by his lordly airs and awestruck by his dragon, however runty Vaellon was.

Others found the man to be unbearably pretentious.

Rhaegar took a seat at a bench alongside Baelik Mormont.

"Any brother who can stop the others from breaching the wall has my vote," the man was saying. "The true campaign isn't political; it's located in the north."

Balon Selmy voiced his agreement. "Which is why we need to pick the best leader the watch has to help defend the Wall. Bear," he said, calling the ranger by his nickname, "do you think you have what it takes to lead the Night's Watch? You are, after all, the First Ranger."

Baelik nodded solemnly. "I have what it takes. Just don't expect me to sit inside a tower all day reading papers. I belong out there in the cold with a sword in my hand. Aye, but I'll lead."

Rheagar looked at the First Ranger with thinly veiled disgust, and snorted, "This is why you are First Ranger, and not the Lord Commander." His gaze was icy cold.

"Nice of you to join us, dragon." Baelik met the hard stare with a laugh. "You're right, Lord Commander Holster merited the position far more than I. And if losing another election means that I will spend more time out in the field, then I'll gladly let the position pass to the next best candidate. Cast your vote against me, dragon boy. Like I said, my place is out there."

Aron Sand stood across the room and raised his mug of ale, "I nominate Rhaegar Targaryen!"

There were a few murmurs from the crowded room, and hushed whispers. All eyes turned to Rhaegar, who slowly stood from the bench. He lifted his hand for silence. The gesture brought more eye rolling from some of the older and more grizzled rangers, but the younger boys were all watching the Targaryen excitedly.

Rhaegar stood dramatically, moving his violet eyes across the crowd of men in black. "This is not something I take lightly," he spoke, his voice echoing in the quiet chamber, "I know that we give up our house allegiances when we take our vows, but something is needed here at the Wall that I am in the best position to give - fire and blood."

The room erupted into conversation, and the days of voting that followed were tense. Rhaegar gained a third of the vote easily from his popularity amongst the younger boys alone, but the First Ranger Baelik had decades of experience over the Targaryen, and the older men of the watch knew it.

The race was neck and neck for a time but then on the third day, Vaellon managed to track down and kill a group of wildlings attempting to climb an isolated part of the Wall. It was the first time the dragon had done anything useful, and the first time anyone had seem him actually shoot fire from his mouth. Many took it as a sign of Rhaegar's prophecy about fire and blood come true, and on the fourth day he was declared the victor.

_Fire and blood,_ he thought as he climbed the stairs to the Lord Commander's tower at Castle Black. _I will show the whole realm the meaning of both..._

**- DAMON -**

The gulls were crying over the harbor of Lannisport and the Sunset Sea, and countless smallfolk hurried about their business in the port town where the River Road, Gold Road, and Ocean Road met. In the background, rising above the thick morning haze, loomed the great fortress of Casterly Rock carved into stone atop mines of gold.

The air smelled of salt and sea and in certain parts of the castle one could hear the sound of thundering waves crashing through the tunnels at the base of the mountain and echoing off their stone walls. It was quiet, however, in chambers of Lord Loren Lannister, but for the sound of his oldest son's complaining.

A fire burned low in the hearth. Lord Loren had his back to Damon as he stood before the great stone fireplace. He was looking up at a blade on the wall above it, displayed splendidly against a red oak backdrop with black etching burned into an intricate and swirling pattern around its border. The sword was Widow's Wail, the ancestral Valyrian steel blade of House Lannister, and the last man to wield it had been Loren's brother Tyrius.

The Warden of the West watched the red ruby eyes of the golden lion glimmer in the fire's glow.

"Am I not owed some sort of explanation?" Damon was asking. His voice sounded strained, pleading and desperate. "Why would you do such a thing? Don't I get a say in who I marry? Or when I marry? Or _if_ I marry?"

His last question was one of the heir's favorite threats, but it held no weight now. The cloaks were exchanged, the vows spoken, and the marriage consummated. There was no going back.

_I should not have slept with her,_ Damon knew. _I could have gotten out of this._

But his thoughts had been clouded by wine and when the beautiful and naked maiden stood before him in the bedchambers his willpower had vanished.

Loren's face was impassive as he stared at the sword above the mantle. When he spoke, it was in tones so icy that even the fire in the hearth could not have melted them.

"Will you make me repeat myself," he asked through gritted teeth, though his voice made it apparent that the question was rhetorical. Lord Loren felt he had given Damon enough of a reason the night of the wedding when he introduced his son to his betrothed. _"You are the heir to this kingdom and this lordship and it is high time you started behaving like it."_

Damon stood glaring at his father's back. "But a Targaryen? Have you gone completely mad?"

The sword seemed to take up the whole room to Loren. It hung there on the wall, glittering against its dark wooden backdrop, looking down on the two of them and judging them both.

"Lady Aeslyn is a beautiful woman," Loren said plainly. "You'd think someone with your _leisurely pursuits_ would show a bit more gratitude for arranging such a match. Every man in Westeros would be happy to call her his bride."

"Then let _them_ marry her! Do you truly expect me to be grateful for this? You've wed me to a shamed and exiled house. You think marriage is just a fine way to slight the someone, is that it? Is that why you married my mother, as well? The sister of a king's dead enemy?"

"I will not suffer the criticisms of an arrogant and foolish drunk, even if you do bear my name," Loren replied evenly, though the disdain seethed through his words, "Besides, you are not the only child of mine to be wed."

His remark gave Damon pause. Thaddius was in the Kingsguard, and sworn to take no bride. That left only his youngest sister as to whom his father could be referring.

"Ashara? She is ten and six, that is far too-"

The Warden turned to face his son at last and leveled his cold hard stare at his oldest child, silencing him at once. "She is already wed, and I refuse to waste more time indulging you in a discussion of matters in which your opinion is irrelevant."

Damon was furious, but he kept his mouth shut. He would defy his father openly in his small council and make japes to his face in front of his siblings, but when there was no audience and it was just him and the hard, appraising gaze of Loren, he knew not to yank the lion's tail.

"Who is this man?" Damon asked quietly, breaking the tense silence between them after a time. He glanced at the floor when he said it, unable to hold Loren's gaze for long.

"Aerion Blackfyre," came the unexpected reply.

The surprise and confusion was evident on Damon's face. He had never been as poised as his father.

"As I said," Loren continued, "We haven't the time for your idle conversation. You are riding to King's Landing on the morrow, to make this man a king."

"A king," Damon repeated. He looked at his father with a mixture of incredulity and annoyance. "The realm already _has_ a king. The Baratheons-"

"The Baratheons," Loren snorted. "Tell me what kind of kings they are, Damon. Tell me of the accomplishments of good King Harys, of his father Renly and his father Orys before him."

Loren turned away from his son and stared back at the sword over the hearth, the rubies and jewels in the scabbard glowing in the dwindling light of the flames beneath it. Weak winter sunlight was beginning to break through the fog and creep into the chambers through an open window and the night's fire had been abandoned, left to die out, leaving the room with a slight chill not unlike the one in Lord Loren's voice.

"Orys Baratheon preferred drink to diplomacy and his treatment of the ironborn is what led to the second Greyjoy Rebellion. He plunged the realm into chaos and dragged half of Westeros into his bloody war, and if it weren't for him your uncle would still be alive."

Widow's Wail stared down at the two of them, imposing and menacing.

"And Renly Baratheon," Loren continued, his voice tinged with an anger nursed over decades. "Who died on a hunting trip, gored to death by a pig. A fitting end for a man who lived like one. His son continues the gluttonous legacy of his house, with his constant feasting and his winter tourneys. His small council is filled with his foolish family - how long until they call our banners once more for a war they've started as a result of their own ignorance?"

Damon said nothing, and a long silence stretched between the father and his son. Loren seemed to be deep in some memory as he looked up at the sword above the mantle.

"You want me to ride tomorrow, you said," Damon spoke after a time.

When the Warden of the West replied, it was in a tone that relayed absolute certainty.

"Tomorrow."

**- DANAE -**

An icy wind whipped the snow flurries about so that many never met the ground. It mattered not to those shoveling the path to the gates of Castle Black, however, as there was plenty of snow on the stone road needing to be removed already.

"Watch your step there," Balon Selmy said kindly as he escorted the strange visitor up to the maester's chambers. He was dressed all in black, and lead the traveler up to the tower.

Danae Targaryen stepped carefully up the icy stairs, her high leather boots struggling for a foothold. Her tattered hooded cloak was wrapped tightly about her small frame, and she used one hand to clutch it and keep the wind from whipping it away, and the other to steady herself along the stone railing.

James and Summer remained behind, enjoying a hot meal in a warm hall, much to Danae's envy.

"Here we are, then!" Balon announced after it seemed they had climbed for miles, pushing open the heavy wooden door at the top of the landing and delighting in the burst of heat that came from inside.

Danae was grateful for the warmth as well as she stepped into the chambers. She pulled down the hood of her cloak, revealing her long white blonde hair, and shook the snow from her clothing as best as she could.

Grand Maester Orin was inside, sitting before the fire burning in the hearth. His great black beard had even more gray in it than last she'd seen him, and his chain hung heavy over equally gray robes.

"Hello again, Grand Maester."

"Lady Danae," the older man stood and nodded as he retrieved a chair for her. "It is good to see you've arrived safely. Your cousin Rheagar traveled with me from Last Hearth. He is an odd young man, I must say."

He motioned to Balon Selmy who gave a small bow and exited the room while shutting the door behind him.

"Last news I've heard from the south tells me your sister was wed to one of the Lannisters," he said, sitting back down his his seat carefully. "Unfortunately, I believe she is now lost to our cause."

"_You see that man in Lannister armor? The one with the golden curls and eyes as bright as emeralds? That is Damon Lannister, and I plan to make him my husband shortly after this tournament."_

Aeslyn's words rang in Danae's ears as she sat in the dark, dreary maester's chambers of Castle Black.

"The Lord Commander received a raven from your sister before you arrived," Grand Maester Orin spoke again after a short time. He sifted through his pockets and pulled out a dirtied letter which he passed to Danae.

_Lord Commander Tully,_

_I wish to speak with Orin Baratheon and Danae Targaryen before they leave on their journey to Essos. I would much appreciate it if you would halt their journey. It is pertinent they be detained until I arrive at Castle Black with my guard from House Lannister. I only wish to say goodbye to my sweet sister, and wish her farewell on her journey. Would you deprive a lady that when it is the only family she had before she married? If you delay their voyage, I will be in your debt. As the saying goes, and everyone knows it, "a Lannister always pays her debts."_

_Lady Aeslyn Lannister_

Danae read through the letter several times before speaking. Her small hands folded the letter calmly, but rage seethed within her at Aeslyn's foolish actions and arrogant words.

"She throws away her bloodline so quickly for gold? Her words are _Fire and Blood_ not this poorly veiled threat about debts."

Danae tossed the letter back to the Grand Maester as she frowned and leaned back into her chair, thinking. "Aeslyn approaches the wall with a Lannister guard? I doubt that she wishes me to travel to Essos and return with all the glory that could have been hers if she were brave enough."

There was a long moment of silence before she stood suddenly and began to pace back and forth across the room. "Grand Maester, my father has told me since I was a young girl that Aeslyn was insane. I believe you may have observed her _eccentricities_ at the tourney? It is my belief that she travels to the wall to murder me and take my dragon, as she would not allow me any chance to return to Westeros with an army of my own."

Grand Maester Orin nodded. "It is my suspicion as well. Despite her obvious 'eccentricities'there is no denying that your sister has power now that she has married a Lannister. If she wants to see you dead, then as long as we stay in Westeros you are not safe."

Danae thought back on the Lannisters she had seen at court. Damon Lannister had a reputation for drinking and whoring and she could not imagine he was a man who would choose to marry Aeslyn. The marriage must have been arranged by his father.

_But why would Lord Loren Lannister choose to marry his first born son to the head of a house with such poor political standing?_

Danae finally stopped her pacing and turned to face the Grand Maester. He had been watching her every move closely, his dark eyes gleaming. The look in his eyes made her uneasy, but she pushed the feeling aside.

_I need him._

"There are only three dragon masters in Westeros, and neither Aeslyn or Rhaegar can be depended on to rebuild House Targaryen," Danae told him."I fear that Aeslyn fell into a den of lions and does not know what she is facing with the Lannisters, and though it has been many years since I've laid my eyes upon Rhaegar, he is sworn to the Watch now, and thus no longer wears our name."

The fire crackled in the hearth and one of the sticks snapped loudly and the log slid, letting forth a burst of flame that sent long shadows across the floor.

"The blood of the dragon has fallen from sitting the Iron Throne to trading cod with merchants and fishwives while my distant cousins hide themselves and Aeslyn and Rhaegar forsake their blood."

Danae approached the aging maester slowly, and leaned in closely to speak her next words. Her voice resonated with an authority never before heard from her lips.

"I am neither Lion nor Crow. I am Lady Danae Targaryen, and I am the last dragon. It is time for you to aid me now, Grand Maester Orin, in becoming _Queen_ Danae Targaryen."

The Grand Maester smiled mysteriously and nodded. "Then we shall leave at once for Eastwatch-By-The-Sea with a few members of my guard and your two companions. We have the funds to find a captain to take us to Valyria."

Before Danae could speak, the door to the tower swung open, and a breathless man with long hair as pale as her own strode in.

"Rhaegar," she said, frowning in confusion. Her cousin looked different since she had seen him last. He was dressed in black from head to toe, but the fringes of his cloak were stitched with crimson thread and he wore a red broach at his throat. He was a decade older than her at nearly twenty and nine, but still had the poise and the handsome look of a Targaryen.

_But he is not a Targaryen,_ Danae thought to herself, _Not since he took those vows._

"I am going with you," he said when he caught his breath, a devious smile on his face and a baleful glint in his violet eyes.

"Going where?" Danae stared at him, her confusion melting into annoyance. "Have you been listening outside the door? Were you eavesdropping on us, cousin, like some nosy child?"

"Valyria," he answered, ignoring the slight. "I'm going with you to Valyria."

The glow from the hearth was reflected in their matching amethyst eyes as the two cousins stood and faced each other.

"No, you are not," Danae said.

Rhaegar was undaunted. "It has been many years, dear cousin, and you are not who I remember. You are most certainly not who I was expecting."

"I'm not?" Danae asked with sarcastic surprise. "Who were you expecting? I am sorry, _dear cousin, _but we do not require your assistance. You are a man of the night's watch stationed at Castle Black. Thank you for your offer, but you must stay here."

Rhaegar stepped forward. "Fire and blood," he said with his usual dramaticism. "This realm hasn't seen enough of either in far too long." He inched closer to her. "You and I, cousin, we will show them what it means to be a dragon. I will take my beast across the narrow sea and come back with an army and then take the Iron Throne with the words of our house, and you…" he reached up to touch her face, "...you will be my bride and my queen."

Danae caught his wrist inches from her face.

"I will be nothing of yours," she said.

The edges of Rhaegar's lips began to curl into a sinister grin. "I was searching for something but now I need look no longer. I've found the one who was promised."

"Look upon your own reflection." Danae replied, releasing his hand. "For you were promised to the Night's Watch. Now, _get… out."_

Rhaegar seemed startled by her words and his smile faded. He looked from the Grand Maester to her and started to stutter out a reply before Danae leveled her hard gaze on him once more.

"I said _now._"

He took a few steps backwards before turning around and marching to the door, swinging it open and storming through the threshold. He nearly toppled over Balon Selmy as the sworn brother was about to knock and enter. Rhaegar didn't bother to apologize, and disappeared into the cold winter's air as Selmy stepped inside.

"Is it true you're going to be heading to Valyria?" he asked the Grand Maester hesitantly, wringing his hands.

"It is true," Orin replied. "We will brave the Smoking Sea and travel to the Doom, but I am afraid our business there is our own and I cannot discuss this any further. I hope I have your pardon, brother Selmy."

"I'm not an idiot," the crow replied, determination in his voice. "I have my own guesses as to why you are going there. Permit me one question, if you will."

The Grand Maester looked to Danae and raised an eyebrow before turning back to the brother and nodding. "Alright then, lad."

"Is it true that there's magic in Valyria? Spells and powers and that sort of thing?" he looked nervous as he asked the question, as though worried they might laugh at him, but the Grand Maester smiled warmly.

"That is true as well," he said. "Magic that can kill even the strongest man, and make castles and kingdoms fall, and grow lizards into great dragons. Magic of great power, that any maester worth the Valyrian steel link about his neck would pay any price to see."

His hands reached for his collar, and he fingered the chain carefully.

"Is that why you're going, then?" Balon asked, glancing between the beautiful Targaryen girl and the old measter. "To get a dragon?"

"No, we do not go searching for dragons. We already have one right here in our presence."

Grand Maester Orin turned looked up at Danae and smiled.

**- THE YOUNGER ROSE -**

It had taken some time to break camp, what with twenty thousand men.

King Harys was marching for Highgarden to muster the Reach's bannermen and assault Oldtown, certain that the Lady Maude Tyrell was within its walls. Yet there were those among his party who were not fully convinced. One of them was Benjen Tyrell, Maude's younger brother of ten and eight. He was shorter than Troy, and his golden brown hair was a bit less kempt, like the beard he wore on his chin.

He rode mounted through the emptying camp as the tents were being dismantled, one hand holding the reins and the other resting on the pommel of his blade as he surveyed the busy scene. Fires were still burning. With winter's chill still gripping the Reach, they would be the last thing to vanish, stomped out only as the men were on the verge of marching.

Troy was hot headed, and always had been. Benjen was not surprised to learn that it was he who caused the King's party to be ejected from Lord Hightower's city after breaking the sacred Guest Right. Perhaps it was best that Ser Thaddius Lannister was escorting him back to King's Landing, though Benjen held no love for the knight of the Kingsguard.

Benjen thought House Lannister to be a house of opportunism and greed, equally renowned for its lack of honor as its wealth. Thaddius Lannister was one of the youngest men ever chosen for the Kingsguard, and people called him a prodigy when it came to his prowess with a weapon. But Benjen found his arrogant attitude and the dirty tricks he used when fighting to be unbecoming for a knight, and especially one who held the highest honor attainable by serving the King himself.

That was one reason for the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when he heard Ralf's answer to his question about his sister's whereabouts.

"Mellara? No, m'lord," he said, looking up at the Tyrell lad, "I haven't seen her since this morning. Ser Lannister came by to see her. They left together, that a ways." He pointed north, towards the woods. "I overheard him saying that your brother wanted to see her off before they left for the capital."

"Thank you, Merryweather," he said, tugging the reins of his mare and setting off in the direction the soldier had pointed.  
Sending the Tyrell heir back to the capital instead of allowing him to join in the attack on Oldtown was the worst sort of punishment the King could give his brother. Benjen knew that Troy was probably seething over it, and having Ser Thaddius as his escort only added insult to the injury.

The frosted grass crunched beneath his horse's feet as the mare trotted along. When he reached the narrow road at the edge of the woods, Benjen found the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, though he could not say for what reason.

The path snaked north through the elm grove like a ribbon, twisting and turning. The dirt was packed and well trodden from the arrival of the King's twenty thousand, and it would be beaten down some more when they left in the afternoon. Benjen made out the hoof prints of two horses headed opposite the rest and followed them cautiously.

He was surprised to see the tracks lead off the path after a time, and into the woods. Benjen shifted in his saddle, anxiety gnawing at his stomach. He led his horse off the road and into the trees as a hawk circled overhead, its great rust colored wings casting a shadow through the leafless trees and onto the ground in front of Benjen.

He heard voices in the distance, though he could not make out what they were saying, and spurred his mount on nervously. His horse stepped carefully over tangled tree roots and fallen branches, and at last he found himself in a small clearing of sorts.

He noticed Thaddius immediately. His milky white Kingsguard armor practically sparkled in the low winter sun, and the pale cape clasped around his shoulders looked like flowing moonlight, standing out in sharp contrast to the dull browns and grays of the trees around him. But Benjen wasn't looking at the knight's armor; his eyes were fixed on the dagger that the Lannister held against his sister's throat.

Mellara's eyes were wide with fear, and her small hands were clutching the knight's armored forearm as he held her close against him. He could see her chest rising and falling as she sucked in short, panicked breaths.

"Benjen!" Thaddius called to him pleasantly, "How good of you to join us! Oh, and you brought a horse. Wonderful! We will be needing that."

Benjen drew his sword and his horse stamped its feet and whinnied nervously beneath him.

"Ah-ah, not so fast there, young Rose," Thaddius grinned, pressing the point of the blade against the pale flesh of Mellara, eliciting a startled yelp. A small droplet of blood appeared where the steel met skin, and slowly rolled down her neck.

"Benjen, don't!" she cried.

"Drop your sword, Tyrell," Thaddius said, "or I'll slit your sister's throat and you and your brother can ride with her corpse the whole way to King's Landing."

It was then that Benjen took note of Troy. His older brother was bound and gagged, propped up against a tree to the right of the scene. His face was bruised and bloody, and dead leaves clung to his matted golden brown hair. He was glaring at the Lannister, his eyes filled with hatred.

Benjen slowly extended his arm to his side and dropped his sword, the iron blade landing with a dull thump against the ground.

"Now then," Thaddius said, a sinister smile on his comely young face, "Let's not waste our daylight. It's a long way back to the capital."

**- AEMON -**

The sound was the faintest of _clinks, _a scraping of steel on stone. _Nothing, nothing_, Aemon breathed, but the gold cloak was turning, crossbow in hand. _Gods forgive me,_ he thought as he slit the man's throat. Steel struck bone, and lifeblood pooled out crimson as Aemon lowered the guard onto the moonlight cobblestones, hunching atop the thrashing form until it lay still. _Gods forgive me..._

Ser Lomas and the rest of Aemon's men emerged from the thick winter fog that clung to the merchant stalls of Fishmonger's Square. Above, a pale moon hung lifeless, shining down dimly on the streets of King's Landing. The commonfolk had retreated into their hovels long ago and Aemon knew that from the outer walls the Lannister host's campfires could be seen ablaze from the King's Gate to the Iron Gate. Throughout the city, their war drums could be heard beating through the night.

Aemon only had to nod for Lomas to take his ten men and steal away into the fog, this night had been weeks in planning and Lomas knew what was needed of him. They had ten men each, and there were eight gold cloaks stationed at the Mud Gate. King Harys in his pride had left the city barely strong enough to defend its own walls, whereas under any other circumstances Aemon would have expected to face a station of thirty men.

_But he was prideful, and foolish, _Aemon thought, _and a king should be neither. _Yet his mouth tasted like bile and in the back of his mind the word _turncoat _crashed over and over like some restless wave on a shore.

Ahead, the gatehouse loomed, a red stone giant squatting between the city and the quays. At Aemon's signal, eight of his men clung to the shadows and he continued forward with only two. He could only pray that Lomas and his men were in position.

"Ho! Who goes there?" a voice called out.

"Relief!" Aemon replied, thinking of the body he had left bleeding out in the moonlight. A man exited the gatehouse, short and stout with a sword at his hip and a torch held high in the air.

"I don't know you," the man said suspiciously, spitting a gob of phlegm onto the slick cobblestones.

"Aye, Godry Borrell means to keep fresh eyes on the walls."

The goldcloak eyed the three of them up and down and for a moment Aemon feared that the ruse was up, but the man only spat once more.

"Bout time," he said. Turning he called into the gatehouse. "Arnell, Jorry! Relief! Get your stinkin' hides out here!"

Arnell and Jorry barely gave Aemon and his men a glance before stepping around them and disappearing in the direction of Fishmonger's Square alongside the first gold cloak. The seven he'd left behind would deal with those three, Aemon knew, and it would be three that they would not have to face again when the Golden Company came through the Mud Gate.

The drums seemed to be beating ever louder and ever faster, thud-thudding in rhythm with his quickening heart. _They know, _he thought. _They can sense the blood to come. _Somewhere out there his wife's nephew waited, preparing to sack the city. _And I'm the fool letting the tide come in. _

When Lomas appeared with his men, Aemon knew that the two guards stationed at the gate were dead. _Two at the gate, three in the square, and three in the gatehouse. _

_Gods forgive me, _he thought.

His men gave the remaining gold cloaks quick deaths and when the bloody work was done, Aemon climbed the inner wall of the sanctum. From the topmost parapet the Blackwater looked like dragonglass and the yew wood bow that he'd hung across his back soon had an arrow notched on it's string.

"Torch," he ordered and Lomas stepped forward. With a hiss, the cloth and oil at the tip of the arrow caught and flames licked up the shaft.

"Gods forgive us all," Aemon said.

And the shaft arched out over the bay.

**- VARYO -**

"A good night to take the bitch."

Yaro Brokensteel was a true man of Tyrosh, and the Tyroshi were never a subtle people. The sellsword stood beside the Golden Company's spymaster as they both followed the a streak of flame that rose and fell against the obsidian backdrop of the starless sky.

Varyo shot the man a harshly look from the corner of his eye.

"I only hope our friends are in place," he said before turning his gaze back towards the city. Its thick stone walls were barely visible in the dark of night, but the Red Keep towered just beyond them, soft pink stone illuminated by the glow of its torches. Yellow banners with a rearing black stag topped the parapets, but it was too dark to see them. They were merely flags of black cloth.

"I have no will to meet our gods tonight."

The Velaryon spoke with what he hoped was determination, but his mismatched eyes were red-rimmed and his face was raw. Once the fiery arrow doused itself in the black waters of the bay, he placed his half helm over his head and picked up his spear.

_Am I ready?_ he thought. _This will be my first battle without Rhaevo looking after me._

He laughed desperately and finished out loud, "And it shall be a poor one at that!"

The men were moving as soon as their boots hit the shore. True to what was promised, they found the Mud Gate open before them and the army swarmed into the capital like rats.

"You!" Varyo shouted, gesturing to one of his men. "Take fifty men and open the Lion's Gate, the Lannisters are waiting."

The rest of the sellswords made straight for the castle on Aegon's Hill, slaughtering the goldcloaks in their path like sheep.

The army did not stop to sack any of the storefronts or homes that they passed. There were thirty thousand hungry lions waiting outside the city who would lay claim to that honor.

Some of the city guard that they encountered tried to resist, but these men hadn't seen battle the way the Bright Banners had. The Essosi sellswords were at the steps of the castle within the hour and once they broke through the thick iron doors with their battering ram, Varyo led a small group of them to the throne room himself.

_This could all be a trap,_ the spymaster thought as the sounds of armored footsteps shattered the silence of the keep, _Is it really going to fall with such ease?_

The hour was late and the massive chamber was dark; the great glass dome above the iron seat was as black as coal. A few torches burned in sconces on the walls, casting distorted shadows across the stone floors.

"Capture the Hand! Capture the Kingsguard and the council!" Varyo barked, his voice echoing through the expansive hall. The Iron Throne loomed over the room as soldiers scurried off to obey their orders, dark and brooding, like some vicious monster, waiting to feast.

_Good gods! How can such a throne be sat?_

Varyo's voice trailed off in the presence of such a beast. The seat unnerved him.

_Is that really what we are fighting for? _

His thoughts were interrupted by the heavy sound of steel boots pounding the stone floors behind him. When Varyo whirled around he saw a dark haired man with olive skin, clad in dented armor.

"Your Grace," he spoke hesitantly.

Aerion Blackfyre strode past Varyo without so much as a glance. His gaze was fixated on the massive mess of sharpened iron at the top of two dozen steep and crooked stairs. His throne.

He climbed the stairs slowly, each footfall landing with a clang of metal that echoed noisily throughout the vast room. His long hair was tangled and fell about his shoulders gracelessly, but he exuded self assurance.

Varyo watched him in silence.

_He thinks himself worthy,_ he knew, watching the confidence with which the Blackfyre ascended.

When he reached the summit, Aerion sat down on the iron seat carefully and placed each of his arms on the armrests of the chair. A smirk spread across his face as he leaned back against the cold hard metal of a thousand swords, forged in dragon's breath so many centuries ago. The throne towered over the room and Varyo stood in its shadow, staring up at the Black Dragon.

_As much a dragon as I am a Dornishman._

"My titles."

Aerion's voice was deep and washed over the throne room like a tidal wave, enveloping the previous silence. Varyo frowned slightly at his words.

_Does he think that seat his right?_

"Your Grace…?"

"Say them," Aerion said. He still did not meet the spymaster's gaze, starting out past him across the great throne room. "Say my titles."

Varyo kept his face impassive but felt his jaw clench. He took two steps forward and looked up at the King, seated on his imposing chair of twisted iron.

"Aerion Blackfyre," he began, his voice unwavering. "First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, the True Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Aerion smiled, a wide and sinister grin.


End file.
